


draco malfoy unknowingly delves deeper into assholery

by seriople



Series: The Makings of a Malfoy [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Angst and Porn, Character Development, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Pureblood Culture, Quidditch, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2018-12-17 00:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriople/pseuds/seriople
Summary: Why Draco Malfoy Wants His Parents To Just Agree On His Marriage Already:1. Essa is kind of his only friend (even if she's not speaking to him at the moment).2. Potter has been awfully touchy with her recently.3. Purebloods wait until negotiation, not marriage. It would... simplify things.It's Fifth Year, wizards are going through puberty, and Draco's caught right in the middle of it. Who he's always been might not be right, and what he's always believed might not be true...Book Two of the Makings of a Malfoy series. Updates every Friday. Book Onehere!





	1. Chapter 1

It's late.

Draxo Malfoy is tired, and therefore a little bit off guard during Astronomy class tonight. Being a little bit off guard tonight means that he can't take his eyes off Essa.

“-Malfoy? _Malfoy_!”

Draco rips his gaze away from the back of Essa’s head bitterly, drawn out of his daze by Goyle’s insistent pestering. She’d been absentmindedly making the most intriguing faces at her Star Chart, and he’d gotten lost in her expressions -- again. He snaps to attention just in time for the class to end. 

As the Slytherin students begin to file out the Astronomy Tower, Draco rubs his eyes. It's only October, and he's more than ready for summer.

This year so far has undoubtedly been the worst yet; he'd taken one glance at Essa's timetable in the beginning of the year and felt faint.

Much to his displeasure, Essa’s two electives consist of Muggle Studies and Magical Theory, neither of which he has ever dreamed of taking in his entire life. He sits through Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy along with all his core classes with new disinterest, wishing that he had convinced her to take them with him over the summer or that Hufflepuff and Slytherin aren’t so separated.

The only time he gets to see Essa in class is Wednesday night, when Professor Sinistra combines classes with all four houses to teach an extra lesson.

Astronomy has never been difficult for him in years past, but with the OWLs fast approaching it seems as if Professor Sinistra is purposely overloading them with information. Granger answers every question that Sinistra poses with ease, thereby allowing Draco to feverishly take notes.

Daphne Greengrass, a good acquaintance, is rather talented at Astronomy, but she sits nexts to Theodore Nott instead of Draco; Theodore has been helpless at Astronomy since First Year. Essa seems to do fine, although she occasionally asks Granger for help when the Mudblood isn’t too busy lecturing Potter and Weasley for copying down her answers.

On Tuesday and Thursday nights, when it is just Slytherin and Ravenclaw, it is harder for Draco to catch up.

Say what you will about Granger, but that witch knows her Astronomy and can explain all her answers in great detail. The Ravenclaws just say the right things at the right time.

His exhaustion isn't just from the overwhelming workload either; earlier tonight before dinner, Professors Black and Lupin had held yet another meeting.

Draco has managed to make every meeting of the Duelling Club, despite his assignments. This may partially be because a _certain_ Hufflepuff by the name of Essa Sterling is rather dedicated to the club, and this dedication somehow extends to him. This may also be because it's the only chance he has to watch her fight -- she fights, he often thinks, like she's dancing.

Thanks to Essa training him over the summer, he's been able to obtain several badges as well as the title of Slytherin Duelling Club Captain. Essa, on the other hand, easily becomes the Hufflepuff Duelling Club Captain. She wins the favor of Professors Black and Potter, and, much to Draco’s unhappiness, becomes friends with Harry Potter and his Gryffindor friends.

It seems as if everyone likes Essa, even most of the Slytherins. She sits with Draco, Theodore, and Daphne during lunch two times a week, and soon the entire school is buzzing about how _Draco Malfoy_ , of all wizards, is friends with a blood traitor. It had been a grueling decision not to denounce their friendship.

They'd argued once, only a few weeks ago, not about their stances on blood purity, but rather after she challenged him to a duel. He instantly predicted the outcome, like everyone else in the room, but cannot help but bristle at how easily she disarmed him before he even had time to blink twice.

"You disarmed me too fast," he said petulantly that night, trying not to sound too much like he's whining.

“You wanted me to drag it out?” Essa demanded, eyes narrowed.

Draco was exasperated, and more than a little bit afraid of her. “No,” he said, “I just wish that you didn’t have to make it so easy.”

“I’m not going to lose to you on purpose so you can keep your dignity,” she pointed out, less annoyed. “There’s nothing wrong with losing a duel. It’s how you know what to work on.”

He nodded silently, staring at the portrait behind her and feeling the corners of his lips dip downwards. He might've agreed then, but the memory of his loss never left.

On nights that he patrols, she sneaks out and sits next to him by the windows, moonlight lighting up half her face and leaving the other side dark. Her nightclothes are not like a typical Pureblood’s (his are silk and engraved with his surname while hers is just an oversized cotton shirt and tiny shorts) but they suit her.

“I know,” he'd told her that night, “but now Potter won’t stop challenging you until you lose to him.”

She laughed, and he stared.

“Harry’s nice, but once he’s got his mind on something, he won’t let go. Don’t worry, Draco, I won’t let him win either.”

The fact that she is on first name basis with Potter always makes his insides cringe.

Essa takes fruit from the kitchen, and the elves there always pat her hands and smile. They have learned to accept Draco as well, although he isn't fond of that idea.

They eat peaches and grapes until his shifts are over, and his mouth is sticky sweet. At night he feels calm and relaxed despite the endless stress of the approaching OWLs, but when the sun is up again he feels the tension in every muscle of his body.

And then there's the matter of Quidditch.

Snaps has made Graham Montague the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team this year, and appoints Crabbe and Goyle as new Beaters early on.

Montague is relentless, working the team hard in the mornings and cramming them with Quidditch plays in the evenings. Before breakfast three times a week, Slytherin occupies the pitch, and Draco’s only saving grace is that he is a Seeker, and therefore does not have to drill the plays.

However, Montague releases a Snitch during those mornings, forcing him to focus on both dodging Bludgers and finding that damned golden ball in his drowsy state.

Occasionally he sees the new Hufflepuff Quidditch Team jogging around the school grounds in the early light, Essa at the lead and running backwards so she can urge on her teammates. Smith had made her the captain a few weeks after she’d auditioned for Seeker.

Draco, regrettably, had been studying during the Hufflepuff tryouts, but he still hears stories from Daphne and Theodore, who had been there, along with all the other shocked spectators of the Hufflepuff Quidditch Tryouts.

At the end, Essa had left her broom to flip over Summerby, her opponent for the Seeker position, sending him in such a tizzy that she’d caught the Snitch from right under his nose. Creevy had published a picture of her in the school newspaper, clutching the Snitch and giving the camera a dazzling smile.

If a copy of that picture has its own place in Draco's nightstand, who can blame him?

It is all of this combined that leads to Essa’s new reputation as the most popular witch in their year; she seems to be friends with almost everyone, and it is not just the professors that love her.

Draco is thinking about this as he changes into his night robes. Astronomy class is vile, but even worse is the fact that he has his Prefect patrols right afterwards. The nights that Essa spends with him are pleasurable, but the times that she goes to sleep instead are exhausting and long.

Draco is pleased to see that tonight is not one of those nights, but his glee doesn't last long.

“Roger Davies asked me out,” Essa tells him.

It's a fortnight before Halloween, and Draco almost spits out his grape. Together, they are perched on one of the large windows, the crescent moon outside hiding half of her expression. He shouldn’t be surprised; in fact, he’s confused that it took almost two months for someone to do something.

“The Ravenclaw Quidditch captain?” His voice cracks.

Essa nods, looking nonchalant, as if she has not just shifted his entire world on its axis. “He’s in Year Seven.”

“He is,” Draco remarks, scrutinizing her face for any emotion that might resemble joy.

Over the summer, when they'd become friends, Draco had desperately hoped for a marriage between the two of them. Unbeknownst to Essa, their parents had convened several times just to discuss the matter. 

However, as soon as Father had learned of Essa’s house placement, he’d tried to call off talks of the union. Mother had interfered -- after several panicked letters from Draco himself. The union talks are temporarily, as Mother had reassuringly written to him, on hold.

However, despite the fact that Draco is no longer hesitantly betrothed, he's not a fan of Essa dating anyone else, much less Davies, who slightly resembles an ape and does not come anywhere close to deserving Essa.

“I said no to him. He wanted to eat at Madam Puddifoot's,” Essa says demurely, picking off another purple grape from the bunch. Draco’s heart starts again. “How long is there until your match against Gryffindor?”

“Almost a month,” he manages, trying to put away his curiosity.

She makes a humming sound as she leans against her side of the stone opening. Her hair might smell like apples, or it’s just his imagination; he’s not sure. It is very late.

“Slytherin is working hard?”

“Of course,” Draco says, straightening slightly. The corners of her mouth twitch up, even though she’s trying for a straight face. It’s adorable, really, the way that she never can hide a thought.

“I think you’re working hard on the plays, aren’t you?”

Draco plays along. “Of course I am. Would you like my entire playbook? I could even explain all the symbols Montague’s been using.”

He chuckles underneath his breath as she sighs, her smile disappearing.

“You thought I’d help Hufflepuff destroy my team?”

“Friends help out friends,” Essa quips, but she sounds defeated.

Draco watches her out of the corner of his eye. She is picking at her lip. “As if I would give the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain our plays.”

“It was worth a try,” Essa says, shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m worried, about the condition of our team. We’re all new! Literally every single Hufflepuff player in past seasons was in Seventh Year.”

“I remember. Diggory almost led you to victory two years ago -- last year was the Triwizard Tournament. Diggory got second in that, did you know?”

“How could I not?” Her voice lightens. “He’s our house celebrity! I heard he’s planning on attending our first match against Ravenclaw in November. I just don’t want to let him down.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Draco says, oddly uncomfortable with all the emotions she’s leaking out.

There’s nervousness, but also a strange addition of excitement that he doesn’t know how to handle, as if the mere prospect of failure in front of the entire school motivates her for some odd reason.

“Under your lead, the Hufflepuffs have never trained so hard.”

“Really?”

“I saw you out on the pitch a few days ago, teaching your Chasers the Porskoff Ploy. Even Montague doesn’t dare attempt it.”

“Are you nervous for when we play you guys?”

“As if I would bother,” Draco scoffs, pretending that he doesn’t have nightmares of circling the pitch, eyes peeled for a Snitch that will undoubtedly be drawn to Essa as everyone and everything else is. “Besides, that is not until May.”

“Half a year is plenty of time to pick up all of the Slytherin plays.”

“That is,” he says smoothly, sliding a grape into his mouth, “if I don’t find your playbook first. What an irresponsible, unsuspecting Hufflepuff.” He smirks. “Careful, or the big bad Slytherin might come out for dinner.”

By the end of his sentence she is grinning. “I’m no Red Riding Hood.” At his blank look, she keels over, laughing wildly. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” Draco admits.

By this point he’s used to all the little American/muggle references she likes to make, and finds himself even starting to pick up on them.

He has only just figured out the _Bond, James Bond_ reference she made the first time they had a real conversation, and even that was through reading her Muggle Studies textbook during a particular patrol when she insisted on completing her essay without his help.

He has to admit that her textbook is most interesting. At first he limits himself to only reading the sections on literature, and he finds William Shakespeare and William Wordsworth quite unusually complex for muggles.

“Why is everyone named William?” He’d asked after reading in depth about William Blake.

Essa shrugged. “Not everyone has such a distinct name as Draco. Come to think of it, your entire family has distinct names.”

He’d explained to her, then, about the tradition from Mother’s side of being named after constellations, something Essa still finds absolutely, endlessly fascinating.

“I was just named Vanessa after a family friend on my dad’s side,” Essa had told him, and he’d made a foolish mistake.

“And your father’s name?”

She hadn’t spoken for a long while afterwards, sitting in silence long enough to make him uncomfortable. There had been a look on her face, of an emotion so strong that he almost felt the depth of her pain just by watching.

“The big bad Slytherin’s going to eat your grandmother,” Essa sings, jolting him. Her expression of pure humor is at odds with his memory.

He smiles and opens his mouth to respond, but hears a noise that sounds suspiciously like a shoe scuffing on the stone floor.

Immediately his head whips to the sound; if they are caught, his Prefect status may very well be endangered. They’d chosen a hidden spot with a purpose.

“Did you hear-”

Draco nods jerkily, putting a finger up to his lips in a shushing motion. He draws his wand. “ _Lumos_.”

“Relax,” Essa says. “Nobody comes here anyways.” She chews, and swallows. “The hall’s empty.”

He wants to agree and go back to their conversation, but over the past month and a half he’s been back at Hogwarts, there have been more and more instances like this occurring: he hears a noise or someone following him, but he turns around and nobody is there.

He is beginning to suspect Potter is up to something; after all, he has managed to avoid him entirely for the entire school year so far. Potter is not one to shy away from conflict.

“I know you’re there, Potter,” Draco hisses, angry. He’d listened to Essa and tried to put their truly idiotic school rivalry to rest by ignoring the Gryffindor’s existence entirely, but he will not be made a fool of again.

It is one thing to follow him during class, but to bother him in the dead of night, interrupting his measly hours with Essa, is another.

“Draco-”

He hears it then, the slight rustling of someone breathing against cloth, and immediately points his wand at the sound.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” he mutters.

Something hits the ground hard, and Draco steps up, vaguely satisfied. He’d assumed that Potter and his friends had access to some sort of Invisibility Cloak, and is granted with the knowledge that he had been correct when the stone floor comes up in his fingers to reveal a dazed Potter.

“I thought so,” Draco says, pointing his wand down, but a cool hand clutches his wrist.

Essa frowns down at Potter. “Come on, Harry. Why are you here? You don't have patrol tonight.”

“He can’t answer-”

“It was rhetorical,” she replies, looking at him. “What are you going to do to Harry?”

“Maybe I’ll jinx him,” Draco says, scowling. He hates Potter with a fiery vengeance -- he'd been followed for absolutely no reason at all. “Although I do feel like hexing him tonight-”

“Or you could report him to McGonagall for breaking curfew. You’re a Prefect, aren’t you?”

“You’d get in trouble too,” Draco points out.

Essa shrugs. “I don’t care. I broke curfew just the same.”

“Potter,” Draco spits, viciously nudging the Gryffindor’s leg with his foot, “has been following me for quite a while. I haven’t said even a word to him and he’s been picking fights as usual.”

“Just report him-”

“As if McGonagall will do anything to him, with the Quidditch match so close.”

She frowns, and much to his disappointment, draws out her wand. It gleams white in the moonlight.

“ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” she says softly, and Potter jerks up, grabbing at the cloth in Draco’s hand and adjusting his glasses in one swift movement.

He lifts it above his head, finding bitter delight in his height -- it's the one thing Potter will never take from him.

“What’s the matter, Potter?” he taunts. “Standing on your tiptoes won’t get you what you want?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Potter spits, drawing his wand. “You know what you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, do enlighten me,” Draco replies, pointing his wand at the Gryffindor.

“Your family’s been hunting down the families of muggleborns here at Hogwarts,” Potter spits, eyes darting to Essa. “You haven’t told her, have you?”

For a moment Draco pauses in shock. “You’re lying,” he says. He hasn’t heard a thing about muggle families in danger, and Father would never waste the Malfoy fortune on something so trivial.

Potter studies him, and steps back. The ugly look in his eyes is gone, and although he does not lower his wand, Draco knows that he has won his trust at least on this matter.

“You really don’t know?”

“My family does not approve of muggles, but we do not waste our time with them,” Draco admits, allowing himself to look at Essa. She is staring back at him, face pale and wand dangling limply in her fingers. At his words, she startles.

He has never felt shame in his beliefs, but under the disapproving look in her eyes, he turns back to Potter, uncomfortable.

“That’s why you’ve been following me, then? Over some half-baked thoughts?” Potter nods, wordless, and looks slightly uneasy. Draco scoffs, taking advantage of it. “Gryffindor pride, once again demonstrated. I ought to hex you into our Quidditch match.”

He opens his mouth, his mind focusing on a most lovely hex, but Essa speaks for the first time since Potter’s accusation.

“What are you saying about the muggleborn families?”

“Chances are, he's bluffing,” Draco says, studying Potter closely.

Potter keeps his face blank, but the tenseness in his body is prominent. “Don't worry about it, Essa.”

“They're just rumors, aren't they? Heard from your Mudblood excuse of a mother?”

Potter’s face goes murderous, but Essa steps forward.

“There is nothing wrong with being muggleborn.”

“I know where you stand on the matter,” Draco says tersely, ignoring the way Potter’s eyes dart between Essa and him. “And you can say the same of me.”

“Draco, can’t you just let Harry go?”

He pauses, slightly furious. “So he can follow me for weeks and you let me won’t do anything to him?”

“He’s wasted his own time and energy based on a factless assumption, and you used a slur at his mother,” Essa points out. “Besides, Harry won’t do it again, right?”

She and Potter share a look, and Draco suddenly remembers that they are friends as well. He wants to hex something badly.

“I won’t follow you unless you give me another reason to,” Potter says, looking defiantly at Draco, who looks back with the sensation that someone is burning his organs. He wants to strangle something.

“Fine,” Draco replies, lowering his wand. He knows when he cannot win a battle. “But I’m giving the cloak to Professor Snape.”

Potter’s eyes widen. “It’s not yours to give.”

“I wasn't yours to follow.”

“I wasn't aware that you needed one’s permission to follow him. You'd think that it would defeat the purpose.”

Draco snarls, tightening the grip on his wand, but Essa steps forward.

“Give the cloak back,” Essa says softly, and her eyes are large and a little bit afraid -- maybe of him. The thought makes him less inclined to Potter. “He won't do it again.”

Draco hates himself for giving in to her, especially in front of Potter. He wants to protest, but either way he will lose something -- it's his pride, or her friendship.

Potter catches the cloak, eyebrows shooting up as he looks back and forth between Draco and Essa again.

“We’re done here,” Draco sneers. “One more time, and I won't bother with hexes. I’ll kill you, Potter.”

The threat feels good, like it's been burning up his throat the entire argument, and spitting it up relieves him.

Essa’s gasp feels less good, but the look on Potter’s face makes up for it. He can tell, like Essa, that Draco means every word.

He stalks away, brimming with fury and determination, trying to ignore the way Essa’s gaze bores into his back like fire.


	2. Chapter 2

Two nights later, he waits by the usual spot for ten minutes before he hears footsteps.

Essa always walks slowly. His strides are long and fast, like every well taught Pureblood, but Essa always acts like she has all the time in the world, her gaze often wandering the walls in awe while his stays fixated on what's in front of him.

He has to stop and grip the brick ledge to keep himself from standing and pulling her to him. She finally appears and sits next to him on the gap in the wall the window makes, biting her lip.

There is something wrong; he can see the tension in the muscles of her face and the worried shadows underneath her eyes. Her fingers are playing and twisting with one of her hair ribbons.

“What is it?”

She looks up, eyes wide. “Huh?”

“What's wrong? Did something happen?”

“No,” she says.

She is a terrible liar: the pitch of her voice shoots up, her eyebrow raises, and her body language tightens dramatically. She may very well be the worst liar he's ever seen -- if she were any worse, he would've thought it an act.

“Are you sure?” Draco murmurs, trying to catch her attention. She is staring out the window, watching the lake ripple back and forth underneath the moon.

There is silence, and his heart rate elevates. Is something because of Potter? She'd sat at the Gryffindor table both for supper last night and lunch today -- had Potter, Granger or Weasley said something to her about him?

“You really meant it?”

“Meant what?” Draco asks, trying to hide how suddenly terrified he is of what she might think of him. Essa turns to look at him then, and her eyes rob him of words for an instant.

“You're going to kill Harry if you catch him again?”

Overwhelming relief sweeps down his bones. It's just a little comment he made, nothing more.

Draco nods, remembering all of a sudden why Slytherins are not usually friends with Hufflepuffs: they are annoyingly sensitive, and even Essa, respected as she is, seems not to have escaped this curse.

Her mouth wobbles and she looks down at her fingernails. Draco feels the intense need to make her see reason.

“Potter’s never given me anything but problems. He makes my life more difficult. If he just disappears, everything would become much simpler for me.”

She is quiet like she hasn't heard him at all, and he sits there awkwardly like an intruder. He studies her, and allows her to think about what to say.

“Moving away and dying are two completely different things,” she says finally.

He raises an eyebrow. “How? Either way, he's out of my life; if he moves, he just might as well be dead.”

Essa shakes her head, a humorless smile on her lips. “You've never known anybody who's died, have you?”

“That's not true,” Draco argues, disliking the way she’s acting like he's sheltered and inexperienced. “My grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, died.”

“What happened afterwards, Draco? Were you sad that he was gone?” She asks him like she already knows the answer to her question, and she probably does.

“He left a great sum of money and items to my father, and emptied several rooms in the main manor. I was young,” he admits, “but not bothered by his passing.”

Essa sighs. “You don't understand, then.”

“Then explain why you're so upset about it!” He’s suddenly frustrated. Why is she acting like he's committed a crime worthy of Azkaban for just wishing Potter’s existence to discontinue?

“It's just Potter. You've known him for, what? A month and a half? Almost two?”

“Losing an innocent life will weigh on you, Draco, and you won't ever forget about it-”

“About what?” Draco asks. “The dead person?”

“About how their eyes might look when their soul leaves.”

Against his will, he shivers, imagining Potter’s eyes turning into bright green glass.

Draco swallows heavily and watches Essa. There is something about her describing death that frightens him.

“We are so young, Draco! Imagine robbing somebody's future because of how he acts as a high schooler -- everybody can change; personalities aren't static. And I promise," she continues, quieter, "you will always regret it. There is not a single person on the entire planet who has the right to take another's life. Death isn't something to joke about."

Draco suddenly remembers the rumors about her dead father, and feels like a bumbling idiot. Of course she's sensitive about death; she has every right to be.

He wonders what it would be like to actually take someone's life. He thinks about killing Potter, and for some reason, imagines that Mother is dying. His skin erupts in goosebumps.

He thinks about Essa forcing him to give Potter the cloak back, the way she so easily talks and trusts others. Is this what she does? Does she imagine herself in their position, and take on their pain?

Draco asks her this, after a short period of silence, and she smiles a little bit.

“It’s called empathy. I was hoping you'd start putting yourself in other people's shoes for once.”

He ignores the last two words and tries to imagine Mother dying, tries to imagine Father bringing him to America and introducing him to a family nothing like him, both physically and mentally. He tries to imagine meeting new friends that believe in fundamentally different things, and starting a new school during an exam year where he hasn't been learning the past five years of curriculum.

“Essa,” he says, not bothering to disguise the wonder in his voice, “you're the strongest person I've ever met.”

The first time they hugged was last summer, when she'd jumped off her broom and missed. Draco had swooped in and caught her, and she rested her head upon his hammering heart and thanked him.

It was also the first time he could remember anyone being so close. For him it was monumental; for her it was nothing.

He tells himself this as he leans closer to her now.

She smiles and allows him to awkwardly wrap an arm around her shoulders. After a few seconds she even leans into him, and he feels like he is hyperaware of everywhere they are touching.

Slowly, like melting ice, the tension in her body begins to seep out of her. Time passes and leaves them behind in their own small universe, hidden away in a dark corridor. He thinks about nothing and everything all at once, and feels peaceful.

He comes back to himself piece by piece. Draco sits there, barely daring to move.

Essa’s breathing has evened out and she's fallen asleep. His shoulder has long gone numb, and he straightens.

He knows where the Hufflepuff Common Room is, but the password remains elusive -- he has never needed a reason to enter it. His best choice is to find Abbott, who is on patrol tonight in the upper floors.

Draco takes a look at Essa and shoulders off his night robes, deciding to wrap her up so she won't get cold. She's barely wearing anything, not to mention that it often gets draftier upstairs.

He debates whether he wants to carry or levitate her for a few seconds, but doesn't wish to take a risk on his magic being distracted and having her hit the ground. Draco stands up, swinging her into his arms. She's not as tall as him and rather slim, so it doesn't prove much of a challenge to him to begin his trek.

Navigating the stairs is a bit harder, especially in the dark, but he manages to make it to the seventh floor. Her hair tickles his chin as he walks. She smells like apples.

Suddenly he hears voices down the corridor, and freezes, but he recognizes one of the voices as Abbott.

“Abbott, it's me,” he calls, and the noise stops.

As the faces come into view, Draco wants to bang his head into a wall. The last lingering bits of serenity escape. Potter, Granger and Weasley are arguing with Abbott, most likely about breaking curfew.

“Malfoy,” Abbott greets tersely, turning around, and her eyes go straight to Essa. “What happened to her? Is she alright?”

“Just asleep,” Draco dismisses. “I found her in the hallway -- probably sleepwalked. You need to take her back to your Common Room.”

He makes eye contact with Potter, daring him to say something different, but the Gryffindor keeps his mouth shut. Potter knows that throwing Draco underneath the carriage will force Essa under as well, and he's too loyal to her to allow that to happen.

“Our shift ends in half an hour,” Abbott says, “and these three are up to no good. Again.”

“Report them,” Draco says without hesitation.

Weasley’s eyes and hair blaze. “You don't even know what we're doing!”

He smirks at him and turns back to Abbott. “I’ll leave you to handle this scum so I can carry her back down to the kitchens. If I’m in luck, there will be two new Gryffindor Prefects when I wake up tomorrow.”

“You carried her up seven flights of the moving stairs?” Abbott raises an eyebrow. “You could have just levitated-”

“And have her fall down into a void of darkness when my focus is elsewhere? And here I thought you were a Prefect,” he scoffs.

“Still,” Granger chimes in, much to his annoyance. “Why did you take her with you? You could've just left her down there and told Hannah about Essa.”

Draco scowls at her. “I’d rather not leave her lying on a stone floor by herself, Granger. You're just proving that Gryffindors aren't at all reliable, aren't you?” He pauses. “And besides, my robe isn't meant for cold surfaces.”

He doesn't feel comfortable with the way Granger looks vaguely like she's solving a fairly simple Arithmancy problem.

“Sure, Malfoy,” Abbott interrupts. “You carry her down and put her in the kitchens. I'll find her later.”

Draco wants to say something nasty so the Gryffindors will stop staring, but Essa stirs and presses her face into his neck, reminding him to not wake her up. He decides to leave this battle unfought.

He sneers at the four of them instead and stalks off, preparing himself for yet another walk down those stairs.

In the end he's exhausted, nearly collapsing in a chair when he reaches the kitchens. He has to reassure the elves that Essa’s fine, just sleeping, and he himself wants to join her. Instead he eats a bundle of grapes, quizzing himself on Transfiguration by changing a few into buttons.

By the time Abbott finds them he's nearly asleep himself.

“You stayed?”

Draco jolts upwards, schooling a serious expression on his face the best he can while half-chewed buttons click in his hand. “I was hungry.”

She raises an eyebrow and points her wand at Essa, levitating her easily. “Go to sleep, Malfoy. Do you want your robe back?”

“She’ll get cold,” Draco says, stopping her from touching Essa.

Abbott smiles, looking amused. “Are you sure? It's worth plenty of galleons, I imagine.”

“Don't drop her,” Draco threatens, his mind groggy, and Abbott actually laughs.

“Okay, wow. Didn't see that coming.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just go to sleep,” she says, and waits until he's gone before she moves.

Draco stumbles into his Common Room and into his bed, casting a cleaning spell in his hair and for his teeth without thinking. He changes quickly and falls asleep, thanking the universe that the Hufflepuffs have the pitch in the morning.

* * *

 

He’s woken up by Crabbe’s blaring wand too soon, and the lanterns above begin to illuminate green light at the noise.

Draco moans and tries to bury his head in the pillows, knowing that he has at least another fifteen minutes -- Crabbe always gets up before anyone else -- but the wand alarm doesn't stop.

Around him, others are starting to stir.

“Shut it, Crabbe,” Goyle exclaims.

“Get _up_ ,” Theodore orders from the bed next to Draco, voice slightly muffled.

Another Slytherin boy leaps out of his bed, grabs the wand, and shoves it into Crabbe’s meaty hands. Finally at physical contact with its owner, the wand shuts up and blissful sighs echo through the Fifth Year boys’ dorm room.

Draco dozes lightly for another half hour before several wands go off in unison, including his own, and he groggily draws the curtains on his bed.

Theodore casts a charm on him that makes him feel more awake during breakfast, and just in time as well; Montague comes up to him, a devilish gleam in his eyes.

“Malfoy, bring your breakfast if you must. We’re going to go see what the Hufflepuffs are doing.”

Daphne and Theodore give him sympathetic looks as Draco grabs a few muffins and hurries off after the rest of his Quidditch team. The only thing in order this morning is his hair.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Granger’s suspicious gaze following him, and mutters an oath.

The Slytherins are gathered around a vacant window on the fourth floor, and Draco joins them, eyes darting around, just waiting for a lovely interruption.

Sure enough, he hasn't even finished half of his first muffin before Potter’s angelic voice comes greeting his ears.

The Hufflepuff team isn't even practicing plays; all the players have been gathered around Essa for the past few minutes, who he can distinguish based on the elegant twisted braid.

Nobody can see what's happening, besides the fact that she's giving a demonstration of some sort, but the angle of where the Slytherins are insure that none of them have even the slightest clue of what's going on.

Three Gryffindors step onto the pitch, and Potter’s voice carries enough that Draco can hear it, but not what he's saying specifically. Weasley and Granger stand beside him like proud parents and Draco truly wishes to smite them all.

Adrian Pucey steps forward, snarling under his breath. “As if Johnson and Bell haven't been sneaking around our practices. Bloody hypocritical Gryffindors.”

Draco watches as Potter points upwards towards the window that the Slytherins occupy, causing Essa to nod and respond. She turns to her team, broomstick in hand, and says something.

“Should've cast an Extendable Ear,” Montague grumbles.

“What broom is that?” Cassius Warrington asks out loud, squinting.

Crabbe turns to Miles Bletchley, muttering. “It’s unfamiliar.”

“Do you know, Malfoy?” Montague’s eyes are piercing. “You’re friends with her, aren't you?”

Draco shakes his head. “It’s some sort of American brand.” He thinks back to the summer, and the graceful way she'd handled her broom. “They do tricks in America on their brooms. We ought to prepare for them.”

“Sterling might,” Montague says, and smirks. “But the other Hufflepuffs won't. They don't have the skill or the guts to, those Hufflepuffs. When's the last time they won the cup? The fifteenth century?”

Everyone laughs, and Draco thinks about how no player from Slytherin would ever dare to take even both hands from a broom, much less jump from one the way Essa does. He thinks about how very afraid he is to play against her. He says nothing.

He finishes his muffins as the Hufflepuff team enters their locker room, and Essa says a few last words to Granger before doing so as well. The girls are both laughing by the end of it. The three Gryffindors leave the pitch and Montague suddenly breaks the silence.

“How much longer until class starts?”

“Almost an hour,” someone answers.

Montague nods, beginning to smirk. “Everyone into the locker rooms. It seems as though we've suddenly had some extra time to practice.”

Draco wants to curse his bad luck but follows his hooting and hollering team downstairs, wishing that Montague had never dragged them upstairs in the first place.

He despises practicing before classes start. Sometimes when he's looking for the Snitch he gets hit by a Bludger or two as his team is running through plays, and a messy _Episkey_ is all he gets before climbing back on his broom. It's terribly inconvenient, and not enough.

As he circles the pitch now, green robes fluttering behind him, he desperately tries to find even a hint of gold in the air. It's too bright outside. His eyes hurt from squinting.

He senses movement below him, but it's just the Hufflepuff team walking to breakfast together, glancing up at the Slytherins and frowning. Three players of the Hufflepuff team try to shout something -- Cadwallader, Summerby and Macmillan -- but Smith and Essa, along with the other remaining players, pull them away.

Draco suddenly has to shift all his weight to the front of his broom, only narrowly avoiding Crabbe’s wobbly hit, and he hopes his hair is still fine.

Professor Lupin is giving an exam today in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Draco had been hoping for some extra time to study beforehand, but of course he is on the Quidditch pitch, dodging Bludgers from his own team instead.

He feels a sudden frustration towards his predicament as he flies ahead to where he’s finally caught a glimpse of that damned Snitch, eyes narrowed.

Draco weaves in and out of the Chaser formation, whipping past a watching Montague who is yelling about staying out of the Seeker’s path. He sees the Snitch then, buzzing up high by one of the Gryffindor flags as if taunting him. He hates being a Seeker, and wishes he had instead become a Chaser for the millionth time as he gains altitude, the wind stinging his cheeks so fast he almost falls off his broom.

The Snitch veers left and begins to fly faster, and Draco pushes forward, determination fogging up the rest of his thoughts and leaving only one.

He stretches forward, only a few centimeters from it, and wants to yell as he pushes himself faster and faster, his other hand tight on his broom. Perhaps the Snitch can sense noise, and will become confused.

The tips of his fingers brush the Snitch and then it is in his palm, cold and unforgiving, and he imagines that Potter is on the pitch with him, that Jordan’s voice is echoing through the microphone.

_Draco Malfoy has caught the Snitch, bringing the Slytherins to a win! Gryffindors lose!_

Potter would realize that he isn't the best, that he is in fact far from it, Draco would pull up to the ground, and Essa would be jumping up and down in the stands, cheering him on. His house would triumph beyond belief. She'd tease him about it later, and he'd pretend to think he has a chance against her when they play in May, and everything would be perfect.

Instead he flies back down to the same elevation as Montague, tossing the Snitch at him.

Draco runs a hand through his messy hair and scowls. “I've caught the bloody thing, just like you wanted. I'm going to the lockers now.”

Montague’s fingers tighten around the Snitch. If there is anything the bastard hates, it's being talked to like a First Year, and Draco takes delight in the way his nostrils flare in anger.

“Potter could've gotten two in the time it took you to get one. You're back on the pitch tomorrow morning, Malfoy.”

Draco doesn't waste time responding, simply turning tail and flying back in the direction of the locker room. He’s tired and not ready for his DADA test, and the stupid Snitch glints in the sunlight, twinkling cheerfully.

The Hufflepuffs are long gone, not bothering to watch the Slytherin plays, and although Draco knows it's not intended as a snub he takes it as one. He had skimped on his breakfast in an effort to catch a glimpse of a Hufflepuff practice, and here they are, rejecting a Slytherin practice handed over to them right on a silver platter.

He's in a dark mood throughout the morning, so much so that during Herbology a plant wilts the second he touches it. Several Gryffindor students snicker when it happens, and Professor Sprout personally comes over to his desk to revive the damned thing.

“If you have any questions, you may ask Neville on how to keep your plants healthy,” she says cheerfully, and Longbottom beams.

Draco slouches in his chair and copies down the assignment on the board instead.

Professor Lupin’s exam is positively maddening, covering areas that he had thought of only back in Second Year. Fortunately he says that it won't be for a grade, but that most of it will be OWL material.

Theodore curses out Hagrid during lunch, using terms that Draco agrees with wholeheartedly. They'd been assigned dozens of creatures to cover in their essay, and the sheer amount of work he has to do, along with the stress of Quidditch, is giving him a headache.

Near the end of the meal there is loud hubbub from the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables. After several rounds of professors trying and failing to lower the volume, Dumbledore stands up.

Draco watches in dark amusement as students of all houses scramble to their seats. Headmaster speeches are, in a way, a rite of passage and a learning curve. In summary, one does not remain standing at the same time as Dumbledore during mealtimes.

“I assume that some students have heard about what's happened,” he declares.

Daphne is eager for information and turns around, hissing. “Do you two know?”

Draco and Theodore shake their heads, and she turns back to Dumbledore with disappointment.

“We urge students to remain calm in the face of panic. Hogwarts is a safe place for all of you, regardless of your magical background.”

“What happened?” A Seventh Year Slytherin stands up, and his voice carries across the Hall. Several other students around him nod, looking curious.

Dumbledore adjusts his glasses, looking grim. “Several Hogwarts students have had muggle relatives attacked by masked wizards.”

Chaos breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking about writing some smut between these two, but I'm not quite sure if I should put it on this fic or start a new one exclusively for it lol


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy nineteen year anniversary of the end!

So Potter had been right.

The revelation does not sit well with Draco, who is a firm believer in the opposite at all times.

Halfbloods and Mudbloods alike lose control and abandon their seats to gather around the likes of Professor Lupin and Professor Black for more information on the matter. And, of course, the noise level is deafening.

Draco watches Daphne and Theodore, who both seem largely unruffled because of their status. The three of them have no muggle relations whatsoever, and are therefore untouched by the announcement. Annoyed by the hubbub, Draco picks up his utensils.

Theodore says as much, Daphne agrees, and they all return to their meals.

However, as much as he hates to admit it, Draco cannot stop thinking about the masked wizards. They must be pureblooded, and, being a Malfoy, he must know them somehow.

It would be helpful to see the masks themselves or even to ask Father about the matter. It seems like the kind of activity his family would not bother with -- after all, pointless bloodshed is a waste of time, but Father is of such high ranking in the government that he must know something. 

In Arithmancy Granger does not answer nearly as many questions as usual, spending her time staring out the window with her bushy eyebrows furrowed instead. Professor Vector says nothing about it; there are a dozen or so empty seats in the room, all belonging to those with dirty blood.

Right before supper is Duelling Club, and it is a testament to Draco’s poor luck that Professors Potter, Black and Lupin are all overseeing today. The mood is somber and there are seldom smiles.

After learning a new duelling spell, Draco is paired up with Weasley and defeats him easily several times over, not even close to breaking a sweat. He delights in the way Weasley's jaw locks tightly and how he seems hellbent on ignoring all the curious spectators.

By the end of it the Gryffindor’s face is almost as red as his hair. Draco is close to making a snide comment about it, but is forced to swallow his words when Essa and Potter walk over.

The two had been paired together again, and they watch from the sidelines as Draco easily disarms Weasley with familiar movements. He feels their combined attention, and puffs up.

Essa claps and retrieves his wand for him, and reteaches the simple movement for the buffoon. She kindly adjusts his grip for several moments and then allows her companion to be pulled aside as she walks over to Draco instead. As Weasley practices a few times on Potter, she reaches Draco’s side of the mat.

“Fancy seeing you around here,” he says, eyeing her curiously, and she smiles.

“Getting bored of Ron?”

“Always, Essa,” he sighs, and the corners of his mouth twitch.

She shakes her head. “That ego of yours... Ron isn't so bad, you know?"

"When he's huffing and puffing after his wand, I believe he is."

"You think you could do better against me?” She raises an eyebrow, challenging him to say anything besides the truth.

“No,” he says immediately, rolling his eyes. "No need to rub it in."

Draco opens his mouth in preparation for another topic, but freezes. Professor Black, who has somehow overheard their conversation from the central platform, startles the club by shouting, “A Duelling Captain has just been challenged!”

Immediately Draco wants to run back to his apple orchards, but  everyone else in attendance has already gathered eagerly around the central duelling strip, the Gryffindors with more spring to their step than usual. He sees the amused grins and satisfied glances shooting his way, and bristles with annoyance.

Professor Lupin is trying to hide his laugh, unlike Professor Potter, who is openly chortling. Draco wishes he could hex them both without further consequence.

“The Hufflepuff Captain, Fifth Year Vanessa Sterling, shall be duelling against the ever so elusive Slytherin Captain, Fifth Year Draco Malfoy!” Black booms, a sly look in his eye and a nasty twist in his mouth. “The first one to disarm their opponent wins!”

 _My cousin Sirius_ , Mother had said once, _should have been sorted into Slytherin_.

Draco repeats this statement over and over again in his head as he climbs onto one side of the duelling platform, believing it more and more with every repetition. Black continues on to announce his and Essa's performance records, mentioning how Essa has never lost a single duel and how Draco has lost three times so far in this school year:

Once to Potter, once to the Ravenclaw Duelling Champion, --Seventh Year Judy Fields -- and once to Essa.

It is about to become four times, Draco muses bitterly as his back meets Essa’s. The Hall is alive with whispers and heated conversations. It is as if the prospect of Draco Malfoy suffering yet another loss has jolted the club from its dark mood.

Black counts with every step he takes, and when he spins around, he feels slightly sick. His heart is beating quickly, racing inside his ribs, and despite not yet beginning to fight, he is sweating already.

Essa is like a different person when she duels, her eyes focused and wand extended. Her gaze offers no mercy, and she narrows in on a single goal: victory. It is times like this that he wonders how she had not been sorted into Slytherin.

He would be a fool to _not_ be terrified.

She doesn't wait for him to strike first -- she never does. Essa jabs her wand forward slightly, and everyone watching takes a singular breath.

A bright nonverbal spell flies towards him, faster than any Snitch that has ever graced the Hogwarts grounds, and Draco only barely manages to block it. The aftershock jolts his arm back so hard he almost drops his wand. His shoulder begins to ache.

Last time he'd watched, dazedly, as he'd been disarmed by the first attack. It's a testament to his intense training that he manages to hold onto his wand.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” He shouts, throwing as much energy as he can spare into the spell.

Essa barely blinks. Her lips don't even so much as twitch. It's frightening, the easy way she flicks her wand to deflect the bright flash of light.

Except she doesn't just deflect it.

Somehow his own spell comes shooting back at him with terrifying accuracy and speed, even faster than the previous one, and he's so caught off guard that he doesn't have time to finish casting his defensive shield before his wand flies out of his hand. He'd known of rebounding spells, but he'd never thought to aim them anywhere besides behind him.

“Sterling takes the victory,” Black announces loudly over the applause. He gives Draco a bemused glance, ignoring the way Draco is scowling at him. “...again. Ten points to Hufflepuff!”

Essa quickly summons his wand and runs to his side so she can hand it over. “Sorry,” she says quietly over her house’s celebrations, “I didn't know he would hear me challenge you.”

“It's not your fault,” Draco responds, humiliated and bitter, but he knows that she's right. Essa had no intention of duelling him so publicly.

She nods and shakes his hand. He wants to be embarrassed about how sweaty his palms are, but she doesn't seem to notice.

“I know.”

He returns her hesitant smile, just for an instant, and jumps off the platform after her. Theodore greets them both and gives him a good natured ribbing, and Daphne congratulates Essa brightly.

Not even Potter says anything about his loss, and Draco thinks that losing might not be as bad as he thought it would be when it's against someone as good and kind as Essa.

He doesn't have patrols that night and so he studies on his bed with the curtains drawn.

Theodore and Daphne are in the library again and had extended their invitation, but Draco is convinced that there is something romantic going on between them. There is no definite proof yet, however much Draco studies them and their lingering, heartsick glances; he lets them have their alone time as much as possible either way.

He wishes he could read what Essa would write about hippogriffs.

She would surely describe them in grand, sweeping words worthy of any William in literature history; she would turn these numbers and facts into poetry and smooth sentences. Draco looks over his own writing in envy.

He's in the middle of painstakingly churning out his third paragraph when Goyle calls him.

“Oi! Malfoy! Theres an owl comin' here for you.”

Draco pulls back the corner of the curtain so Mother’s owl can perch on his headboard.

She writes him often, but compared to his current task, her letter is more entertaining than usual, and so he pauses in his actions immediately to open it. He could more than use a break from this boring waste of time.

A few sweets that he enjoys tumble onto his lap, and he tucks them into the pocket of his robe, resolving to share a few with Essa. He skims Mother's letter quickly but stops and rereads one of the last sections.

_I'm proud to say that the Malfoy family is finally taking action in what we believe in. We have been aware of the muggle and muggleborn problem for centuries, but mere words and influence do not always generate results. Perhaps your children will be able to attend a better, cleaner Hogwarts. Your father and I will talk to you about this when you return in the winter._

He's not sure how to think about the knowledge that his family might indeed be involved in the muggle attacks, more than he'd thought.

On one hand, Potter is right -- _again!_ \-- which irks him to no end, and the look on Essa’s face, if she ever finds out, will destroy part of him.

But this is what he's been wanting his entire life, isn't it? Magic is a sacred gift, not one to be assumed lightly, and the wizards that take it for granted just marry muggles like there is nothing special about magic. And then there are Mudbloods, more and more every year, that steal his culture and benefit from it.

This is what his family believes, and has believed, for centuries.

But Essa has a point. He tries to put himself in Granger’s eyes, discovering a new world of magic as a First Year-

He's not a sensitive Hufflepuff; he is a Slytherin that is Pureblood and Sacred and powerful. He should not be picturing a muggleborn's -- a _mudblood's_  --thoughts. 

Draco sits on his bed, essay entirely forgotten, and tries to decide on a conclusion. In the end he folds up Mother’s letter, tucks it into a secret pocket in his robe, and begins one back.

He leaves out any mention of the muggle attacks and possible involvement, and after several seconds of pondering, hastily adds:

_Essa and I have become even closer friends in the past two months. I believe our union is still an excellent possibility; please try to convince Father that despite being in Hufflepuff, she is a fierce dueller and impossible to beat. She is the Hufflepuff Duelling Captain as well as the Quidditch Captain of her house, and respected by students in all houses, even Slytherin. I believe her to be worthy of a Malfoy._

Draco signs his name quickly and fastens the scroll to Mother’s owl before he can convince himself otherwise. He strokes her feathers and the owl is off, flapping her wings through the dungeon’s only tunnel that leads outside.

“Anything exciting happen back at your manor?” Montague asks, head bent over his playbook. His bed is across the aisle and he is always pretending he isn't interested in Draco's mail.

Draco shrugs nonchalantly. “My father’s bought me another mare.”

He retreats back into his curtains without looking back, finishes his essay, and looks over his DADA test. It takes him an hour to find the correct answers, and goes to sleep with an empty head.

The next morning he wake someone up blearily to the sound of a wand going off. The events of the day are unremarkable until later: he is sitting in the Common Room, revising his boring essay, when he hears a familiar squawk.

Mother’s owl is back, bearing response. Her letter is short, only taking up a few inches of the scroll.

Draco holds his breath and reads through it carefully.

_The Sterlings are on the right side of our revolution; however, Pansy Parkinson has written to her mother that Vanessa herself often expresses ideals that are akin to a blood traitor. I have spoken to Margaret Sterling about this, who has admitted to me that it is likely her daughter will be cut off from the family very soon._

_It is for these reasons that Father and I both inform you that any talk of a union with Vanessa Sterling has been dissolved._ _I urge you to dissolve your friendship with her as well. Malfoys surround themselves with the right people at all times._

_On the other hand, Pansy Parkinson is a Prefect of your house, is she not? I hear that she is near the top of your class, and although not a member of the Quidditch team, it insures her more time to cheer for you from the stands -- something that her mother and father have both reassured me of._

Draco stares at Mother’s large signature in shock.

He remains in this state throughout the morning Quidditch practice. He only barely manages to catch the Snitch, and his hair is ruffled by Bludgers more times than he can count.

Essa sits next to Daphne during lunch, and the four of them -- three Slytherins, and one lone Hufflepuff -- all study for Transfigurations together. The normally reserved Theodore doesn't seem to mind Essa’s presence, and it might have to do with the fact that Daphne is always overjoyed to have another girl to sit with during a meal for once.

Draco keeps himself quiet.

During patrols that night Essa shows up earlier than usual, and she beams at him brightly. Something in his chest lightens. She hands him a piece of folded cloth.

“Here’s your night robe. Hannah told me that you made sure I got to bed safely.”

He nods, body almost vibrating with nervousness, and she sits carefully by him.

“What's the matter, Draco?”

He thinks about trying to say something, and instead pulls out the carefully folded letter Mother had sent him the night before.

“It’s from my mother,” he tells her as she squints at the parchment.

“I can't read cursive like this. Yours is better, but your mom’s loops are so big they cover the other words.”

Draco takes the letter from her and clears his throat. “I'm going to skip the unimportant part, if you don't mind.”

“I don't care,” she says impatiently, kicking off her slippers and putting her bare feet in his lap. She has begun to wear the oddest slippers -- they don't cover the tops of her feet at all, and have thin rubber soles.

They are little more than two pieces of foot-shaped rubber held together by a strip of material flimsier than metal but sturdier than cloth. She calls them by a name with two awkward sounds strung together (plop top? flap mop?), and he has started to distinguish her footsteps by the noise her shoes make when she walks.

He clears his throat. “I'm proud to say that the Malfoy family is finally taking action in what we believe in…”

Essa is silent for several seconds after he finishes with the letter. She withdraws her feet and sits up straight.

“Your family’s involved, then?”

“Somehow,” he agrees, “although I can't picture either of my parents setting fire to muggle London from behind a mask.”

The joke falls horribly flat. It falls so flat that Draco can feel the tension climb. It makes the hairs on his arm stand up.

“Even the highest class can terrorize,” Essa says, sounding unamused.

He can't tell if she's scared, or angry, or both.

“You don't have to worry. You're Pure, aren't you?”

“You're not worried?”

“No,” Draco says carefully, “are you?”

Essa hugs herself, and he awkwardly thumbs at his robes.

“Our mothers have talked,” he says. He feels like he's walking barefoot on shattered glass, and one misstep will ruin everything. “Your family thinks you're a blood traitor.”

“The Sterlings are not my family,” Essa replies, and there is a thread of steel running through her words.

Draco shakes his head. “You bear their name.”

“Only because my mother would be shunned by her society if I went by my real one.”

“Essa,” Draco says suddenly, his mind grinding to a halt, “are you a bastard?”

She says nothing, and he realizes that perhaps this is something that his parents do not know; this is likely something that even most Sterlings are not aware of. And if he is correct, there is a whole other layer to Essa’s character that he has never seen.

He cannot imagine how something would have shriveled up inside each time someone said her full name out loud. He could never hear anything other but Malfoy as his own title.

And suddenly it makes sense: why Essa is so involved in muggle culture when Margaret is so keenly a British Pureblood; why Essa carries none of the mannerisms of her mother. He wonders at what had taken him so long.

“Did your mother raise you?”

Silently, Essa shakes her head. Draco lets out a soft sigh, carefully folding up Mother’s letter and tucking it into his robes.

“You can't tell anyone,” Essa says quickly, and Draco nods, meeting her eyes.

“You have my word.”

Draco looks down at their feet; his rest firmly on the ground and are covered by black leather. Hers, bare, dangle restlessly from a few centimeters off the floor.

Two different cultures, wrapped up in a single visual.

“Your mother says that your family might cut you off if you continue to express your beliefs,” Draco finally says.

“My beliefs?”

“About muggle relations.”

Essa sits up straighter, and her hands ball into fists on her lap. “Just because I think muggles aren't so bad, I'm getting shunned?”

“Magic is a sacred gift,” he tries to explain. She's angry now, but if he makes her see truth, he could save her the problems later on.

“The mud-” Draco pauses. “The muggleborns are stealing our culture, our gift-”

“I don't understand,” Essa interrupts. She sounds frustrated, as if it is he who is blind to the world. “If magic is a gift, shouldn't you want everyone to have it?”

“If everyone had it,” he says slowly, “would it still be considered a gift?” Confident when she does not speak, he continues. “Muggles and muggle offspring don't deserve magic.”

“Why do the status of your parents determine that? Hermione is a bright witch, and she doesn't have magical parents.”

“Granger shouldn't have magic,” Draco says bluntly. “It doesn't matter what she does with it. She still shouldn't have it.”

Essa takes a breath. Her next words sound tired and disappointed. “And so this is how you justify mindless violence? With factors that nobody can control?”

“You can't control wealth either,” Draco argues. “And yet not everyone deserves it.”

She opens her mouth and closes it again, then covers her face with her hands and puts her elbows on her lap.

“What's wrong with what I believe?” Draco challenges, but he feels fragile. “I was willing to drag the Malfoy name through mud so I could openly befriend a blood traitor, but you aren't so willing to do the same?”

“It's not that,” Essa says quietly. Her words are muffled behind her fingers. “I knew you didn't like muggles, but I at least thought you didn't support…”

“You can't honestly think the attacks matter,” he says, incredulous. “You don't even know the ones who-”

“They _died_ , Draco.”

“So?”

She springs up then, standing on the dirty ground with bare feet, curls flying down her shoulders. Her expression is absolutely, maddeningly, furious. The exhaustion is gone, melted away, and has left nothing but fire in its wake.

“Doesn't that make you feel something, Draco? People _died_ , people are being _attacked_ just because they don't have your special gift-”

When he simply stares back in absentminded shock, startled at her outburst, Essa lets out a strangled noise.

“It's being stuck between a rock and a hard place with you, isn't it? If they have magic, they shouldn't, but if they do, they're beneath you because they should?” She takes a deep breath. Her cheeks are flushed. “You just don't like what's unfamiliar to you-”

“Essa,” Draco says, trying to catch up with her rapid words.

“Either way they deserve to be killed, because they're not you, right?”

“ _Essa_ ,” he repeats again.

“Don't you feel bad for them? Don't you feel angry at yourself? Don't you want to do something to make it stop?”

“Lower your voice, Essa.” He stands up as well, feeling numb and detached. “Saying these things won't achieve anything.”

“But you can see, right? That hurting people won't-”

“We need to purify the wizarding world,” Draco says calmly.

Essa's eyes widen. “ _Purify the_ \- what are you going to do? Kill everyone that doesn't have ancient wizarding ties?”

“True wizards will do whatever is necessary to make magic truly pure again.”

He feels like Father, trying to explain why a younger, naive Draco can not befriend certain students with certain surnames at Hogwarts.

Essa falls silent, and takes a step back. Her eyes close, and her expression is painful.

Draco stumbles forward. Why won't she listen, like he did? He wasn't stubborn like this. He respected himself and his name, even then.

“We won't hurt you because you're Pureblooded, don't you see? But they're hurting us! They're taking what's rightfully ours and giving it to anyone who wishes to have it.”

 _Look_ , he wants to say. _Look at how mad you have driven me, look at what you've done to me. Look at how I am begging you to just repeat after me so you might stay in your family -- family is the best thing Purebloods have. Don't leave them. Don't make this happen_.

 _Don't leave me_.

She covers her mouth and when she looks at him, her eyes are bright -- not with tears, but with fire. She looks almost like a Gryffindor.

“I know you're against killing and the likes of it, but you could learn to bear it, couldn't you? To agree with us? Then your family wouldn't disown you, and-”

Essa shakes her head. “No,” she says. Her voice is firm. “Absolutely not.”

“They'll-”

“Do Theodore and Daphne… do they share your opinions?”

“They are both Pureblooded,” Draco says, and watches her carefully.

At his words, her expression turns overwhelmingly sad, and he wishes for a Time Turner. Why didn't he just allow the elephant in the room, so to speak, to live on? He'd known of her sympathies, just like she should've known of his; why did he have to push for this conflict?

"I don't think we should be friends anymore," she says. "I tried, I really did, to make you -- to show you empathy and maybe-" she looks away. "I thought you would realize..."

His mind whirls. Just as he had been trying to prove her purity, she'd been trying to discredit his. 

"It's not your fault, or Daphne's or Theodore's or even Pansy's. It's just the environment you grew up in. You don't even know what a straw is! They've just hid the real world from you and you never got the chance to think for yourself. I don't know if you're even listening to yourself, saying those things about purity and blood. Can't you hear what you're saying? You sound like a _Nazi_ , for the love of god!"

Draco, for once, doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to tell her that perhaps she is the one hidden away from the magic world, hidden away from her kind. But he doesn't want these nights to end -- he still has time, to show her the Pureblood world.

Just as he is about to propose an alternative solution, Essa reaches down to pick up her slippers. She straightens without looking him in the eye and walks away.

“Essa,” he calls.

She does not turn around.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Draco sits down for breakfast, exhausted both from his lack of sleep the night before and the Quidditch practice this morning. He watches Essa for a quick moment. She, like many of the other students, are solemn today.

Just a few moments ago Dumbledore had announced of yet another muggle attack, this time occurring in Ireland. It's the third to happen this week alone, and it's only Saturday. 

Draco would be thrilled of the progress of his family's influence, but he cannot get over how his long, lonely nights weigh down his bones.

Bletchley laughed about it during practice as he and the substitute Keeper had been hovering in front of the hoops.

“Those mudbloods better watch out,” he'd joked, “or it'll be them next.”

Draco had laughed along with everyone else on the team, but thought of what Essa had told him nearly two weeks before -- that pureblood beliefs force the muggles to be _stuck in between a rock and a hard place_.

It's one of those phrases that shouldn't make perfect sense but does, he feels like this describes many things very well. He thinks about this phrase too often.

Essa won't break curfew for him anymore, won't eat with him, won't even look at him. This seems to give Weasley some more confidence -- the blood traitor can hold his gaze for more than a second now -- and Potter talks to her more than ever in the aftermath. Granger grows closer to her as well. Draco had stumbled upon them studying in the library together and had nearly run into a shelf in his haste to leave.

Theodore and Daphne have taken it in stride, although Daphne often glances at the Hufflepuff table in disappointment. She'd gotten along quite well with Essa.

The news of the muggle attacks has driven even firmer wedges between Slytherins and the other students.

The Weasley twins had only waited two nights to explode every single piece of food on the Slytherin table at supper, buying themselves a month’s worth of detention that was certain to be wiggled out of. And they have already done so, for they are permitted to attend the Halloween Feast tomorrow night.

It is the first year that Draco’s year is attending the feast as “upperclassmen”; in his previous years, all Fourth Years and younger went back to the dorms before the upperclassmen entered. Fifth Year prefects and above are required to bring a date to the Feast, and are introduced by house and year -- the only exception is of Head Boy and Head Girl, who always attend the feast together.

Fortunately for Draco, this means that it is impossible for him to escort Pansy, who resorted to asking Theodore instead in front of the entire Hall during dinner.

Theodore’s eyes had darted towards Daphne, whose blatant discomfort confirmed Draco’s suspicions once and for all. There _is_ something romantic between them, whether it be addressed or unaddressed.

Draco has his money on the latter.

He had resorted, after several insistent letters from Mother, to accompanying Millicent Bulstrode, who didn't stop smiling for at least two days. As the only Fifth Year Slytherin girl with a surname on the Sacred List besides Daphne, he’d had no choice, and had simply told her of his plans in the hallway one day.

(Daphne had announced of her being asked only one meal after Pansy’s public proposal to Theodore. The timing, Draco thinks, is most curious.)

There is only one other notable pairing: Hannah Abbott -- the fast talking, swaggering Hufflepuff Prefect in his year, as well as one of Essa’s closest friends -- asked Gryffindor Neville Longbottom during lunch four days before the dance.

Longbottom himself had almost fallen off his chair in his haste to accept, and blushed furiously when his entire table burst into applause. Most curious to Draco was Essa’s unsurprised expression, as if she had somehow predicted the odd pairing, and even approved of it, if the little smile playing on her lips was any indication.

Draco aches for her to recount the story from her perspective. He'd always enjoyed hearing the way she saw other things and people; Draco is an expert at knowing what others are thinking. Essa, however, somehow always knows _why_.

Even the professors are looking forward to the ball. There is a rumor that Professor Potter will finally escort Auror Potter to the feast after several years of attending it with Professors Black and Lupin, and the students are looking forward to finally seeing what the famous Lily Potter might look like.

Professor McGonagall is the only professor completely unbothered by the feast (the school is abuzz with the news that Sprout and Flitwick are attending together). During Transfigurations she merely sniffs at the Ravenclaw who asks the identity of her escort, then deducts ten points.

“I heard she's divorced,” Theodore claims right away.

“No, she can't be,” Daphne argues back quickly. “Her surname has been unchanged for as long as anyone can remember-”

“Bulstrode is coming,” Theodore interrupts.

These days, or in at least the days after Theodore agreed to Pansy’s offer, meals are wrought with tension. Daphne doesn't even bat an eye when Theodore speaks directly to her, especially when he's trying to.

“Hello, Draco,” Bulstrode sings, and Draco allows obvious disgust to form delicately on his face. “I'm so flattered you've asked me to the feast.”

Her eyes dart quickly to another seat, and then her mask of sickening adoration is back. Draco searches where she might have been looking, and meets Pansy’s furious gaze.

 _So there is a bit of rivalry there_ , he muses to himself.  _How quaint_.

Considering that he's known both girls for nearly his entire life, they've still been best friends for longer, and it's amusing to see their long friendship fall apart so easily. Essa surely would never allow something as silly as a date to the feast end a friendship.

Although a disagreement over the purity of blood might-

“I'm going to wear a gown this shade,” Millicent continues, and waves her wand.

There is only a bit more than twenty-four hours until the feast begins, meaning that Draco has only a bit more than twenty-four hours to find a robe in whatever color she might think up. He'd assumed they wouldn't even match, and feels the beginning of a throbbing headache.

She says a spell, loud and confident, and twists her wrist just so until deep purple sparks that resemble dying plums fly from the tip of her wand.

Draco blinks and tries his best to look wide-eyed and innocent. “That looks… lovely.”

“I'm glad you think so,” she coos. “I'd love to see you in it.”

“Excuse me?” Draco immediately says after her, disregarding all the other eyes on them. “I refuse to wear that shade.”

Millicent frowns demurely, but he detects a hint of stubborn determination in her gaze. “I chose it out of concern for your hair. You just have to order robes that match my gown-”

“There is less than thirty hours until the feast,” he spits back, resisting the urge to hex her.

Millicent cocks her head at him. “You're Draco Malfoy.”

“Fair enough,” he drawls, feeling his nails dig into his palm. He keeps his haughty expression. “We will match, on one condition.”

“What is it, Draco?” She smiles at him.

He delights in the broad satisfaction painted over her beauty charms slipping when he responds, cold and detached.

“Don't bother trying to sit next to me during the feast. Your blood may be up to my standards, but you do not come close.”

There are frantic whispers and a few claps from their audience as he returns to his meal. Draco does not bother inspecting Millicent’s face to gauge damage.

“That was cruel,” Daphne says, watching as their childhood friend’s back disappears over his shoulder. “You didn't have to tear her down in front of everyone. What's got you in such a mood?”

“He doesn't know if Essa has a date yet,” Theodore says, and it is just his luck that Daphne chooses this exact moment to look past her neglected feelings.

“I’d thought your infatuation was-”

“I am _not_ infatuated,” Draco snaps, staring down at his utensils. What an awful turn of fate, that the conversation has evolved to this topic. “We were friends, I realized she's a blood traitor, and we're not friends anymore.”

“We all knew how she felt about muggles,” Daphne says, her voice smug. “We put it aside for you because we also knew how you felt about her.”

“ _How I_ \-- no, I only wished to marry her because she was a better choice to Pansy.”

“Just give it up,” Theodore says with a full mouth. “You don't think right when it comes to her.”

Daphne pats his hand. Her nails are short and clean. “Besides, don't pretend like you haven't been upset lately because of it. Ever since you and Essa had your secret row, you've been nothing but brooding and angry all the time. The way you just treated Millicent-”

“She was bothering me,” Draco points out after he finishes chewing. He looks up. “And- _lower your voice_.”

Daphne shakes her head, pursing her lips. However, she does drop to a whisper. “It's not too late to just drop Millicent and ask Essa to the ball. If you really wanted to go with her, you'd do it-”

“That's straight from the heart and not the brain,” Theodore snorts. “You like her. So what? It's not going to happen-”

Daphne jumps into an argument like she's been waiting for it. “Can't you just be romantic for once? Draco wants Essa, and he should try to make things better before it's too late!”

Theodore immediately takes the bait. “Listen, Greengrass, just because you'd accept anybody doesn't mean Essa would. Why, I'm sure you don't even really have a date to the feast! Who is he? Some socially disinclined Ravenclaw you had to bribe?”

Draco almost laughs. It's a poorly veiled attempt to gather information, but Daphne doesn't recognize the hidden question in her own fury.

“Theodore Nott, I’ll have you know that I do indeed-”

“You're just jealous I'm going with Pansy and you can't go with a Prefect, because you won't be announced-”

Daphne rapidly begins to speak over him and Draco hunches down in his seat. He looks away from the disaster happening across from him and notices that Weasley and Granger are having an argument as well, and that Potter looks remarkably amused.

Of course, his amusement might be from Essa, sitting next to him and speaking softly. She's quite taller than him and she's left her hair down today, allowing it to tumble freely down her shoulders. For a moment Draco wonders who she might be attending the feast with. Is it Potter? Is that why they're sitting so close?

He shakes off the thought and turns back to Daphne and Theodore, who have decided not to argue anymore but to sit in a frosty silence instead. Both are looking stubbornly at Draco, as if he will explode and give them his blessing for marriage when they so clearly hate each other.

“I'm going off to class,” Draco announces, standing. “I've got to look over my essay again.”

Theodore jumps up. “I'll sit next to you today for Defence.”

Draco looks to Daphne, whose mouth purses. However, she does not argue her usual partner’s abandonment, and simply leaves the table. Her hand are in fists at her sides.

He counts three seconds-

“You don't think she's really got a date to the feast, do you?”

Draco shrugs, desperately wishing to hold back bemusement. He really doesn't want anything to do with this situation, in the chance he might make everything worse -- or better.

“I haven't heard a thing of her being asked, much less of her asking anyone.”

“I don't know, Theodore,” Draco responds in a dead voice, coming off as uncommitted to the topic, and he begins to walk to class.

Theodore scuttles forward, managing to remain at his side. “I bet she's just jealous she wasn't made Prefect. That's why she hates Pansy so much…”

Draco easily tunes out his companion’s lovesick ramblings. When they pass by the table Essa's sitting at, he resolves at keeping his eyes straight ahead and attention undeterred. He is completely and utterly unaffected by her presence.

Much to his annoyance, Essa doesn't so much as turn her head to follow him. She's so wrapped up with Potter that she pays no notice to the two Slytherins walking past.

 _How insulting_.

"Been keeping a watch out for the Dementors, Potter?" Draco takes out his hand and pushes the back of Potter's head in frustration, knocking Potter's glasses off as his nose crushes into the table. 

Weasley and Granger end their argument immediately, springing up with anger. Potter grabs his glasses and throws them on hapshardly, swiveling around in his seat. His nose is red.

His green eyes flash. "At least _my_ Boggart isn't a mirror-"

Draco is beginning to feel the heat collecting in the tips of his ears. He can feel Essa's eyes on him, but the rest of his half-baked plan has gone to hell. 

Theodore pulls up the hood of his robes, whistling lowly in an impressive impression of a Dementor. Potter stops talking immediately, his hand going into his pocket for his wand.

"You're really going to get it this time, Malfoy-"

"Draco, just go."

This is so surprising that Potter forgets his plan of action altogether, freezing with his hand in his robes. Theodore goes silent. Draco can feel the entire Gryffindor table looking at him, and he makes brief eye contact with Essa. 

He sees no regret on her face for what she's said.

Everyone is watching, eager to see what might Draco do to his former friend. He knows, suddenly, that no matter what he does, he will be damned for it-

 _he's stuck in between a rock and a hard place_.

He almost laughs at the complete irony of it, but narrows his eyes at her, conveying his anger. By the way Essa looks away stonily, he can see she's gotten the message.

 _Next time, you'll get it too_.

"Come along, Theodore," Draco says loudly, a muscle ticking uncontrollably in his jaw, "we mustn't waste our time with this lot."

The entire table table seems to take a breath.

* * *

 

Throughout Defense, Draco cannot bring himself to pay attention to whatever Professor Lupin is saying. He is thinking.

Potter had attended the Yule Ball last year with one of the Patil twins, and Weasley had taken the other. However, rumor has it that this year, the twins are attending the feast with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan.

Granger’s hand is in the air again, and Theodore makes a nasty remark about her being sore all over that Draco pays no mind to.

Another possibility would be for Granger to attend with Potter; they are good friends. However, they're both Prefects, and so that option is null as well.

And besides, why is Draco so concerned about? If Potter takes Essa, so what? So, he tells himself, despite their friendship currently being a bit questionable, he still wishes her the best, and Potter is quite obviously very far from the best.

He's more than several notches shorter than her, he never has his hair in control, and he's a prat. Essa could do better.

She could go with him -- yes, that would be much better than stupid Potter. Draco at least is a notch or so taller, and his hair is always perfect. He may be a bit of a prat, but only to those that deserve it, anyway-

“What about Mr Malfoy?”

Professor Lupin’s eyes are on him, as well as those of the entire class.

Draco gives a quick glance at the board. There is only one word scrawled on it, _Calvario_ , which, unfamiliar as it is, gives him absolutely no information.

“This class is a complete and utter waste of my time,” he begins hastily, “and my father-”

“Oh, shut it, Malfoy,” Granger interrupts all knowingly. “The jinx _Calvario_  is derived from the Latin word _calvus_.”

“Very good, Miss Granger,” Professor Lupin praises. “Mr Malfoy, may you please tell us the meaning-”

“Bald.”

“Thank you again, Miss Granger.” Professor Lupin has to raise his voice over the snickering.

Granger ducks her head down, her wild hair bobbing, and mutters loud enough for the entire class to hear, “it's not like Malfoy knew the answer.”

“We all know he didn't, Hermione,” Weasley says seriously to the laughter of several Gryffindors. Potter looks over his shoulder at Draco, grinning. Unluckily, his nose is in perfect condition -- or as perfect as a Potter's can get, anyway.

Professor Lupin pretends not to notice any of it and Draco seethes.

He hates mudblood Granger with a ferocity that makes him want to scream. He hates Weasley, and wishes he could jinx him into oblivion. But most of all he hates Potter, who has the audacity to look back at him as if he is the class’s laughingstock just because he hadn't been paying attention for a handful of seconds.

He hates all of them, as well as everyone who's laughing. He hates Lupin for being so obviously biased towards them.

 _At least_ , a voice drawls out, _they will be punished at the hands of your family for it_.

This is the only thought that keeps him from drawing his wand right then and there.

His scowl stays on his face throughout Duelling Club, although he feels it deepen when Potter challenges Essa for the second time this year.

The first time had been in the beginning of the year, when she'd been announced as the Hufflepuff Duelling Captain; three Fifth Year Duelling Captains are rare, if not impossible, and Potter had no doubt been seeking the highest ranked position.

Essa had disarmed him in less than a second -- quicker than even Draco -- forcing his first defeat from a student his age in years.

Now, Potter and Essa stand back to back, and Draco is slightly pleased to note that the top of his head comes up to her earlobe. During _his_ duel with her, the top of her head had been level with his eyebrows.

Professor Potter counts them down, looking a little nervous himself, while Lupin and Black whisper quickly in the corner.

The entire club is watching; before Essa's arrival, Potter had been the best dueller in the school, with only Draco as a rival. Everyone is anxious to see if he can reclaim his title, but in her time here, Essa has made no small amount of friends. She has supporters, many of them in Gryffindor as well.

Potter fires off a disarming spell -- his signature move -- even before he's fully facing forward. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Essa rebounds it back at him, her pale wand flicking it forwards, but Potter deflects it behind him nonverbally as well.

He doesn't pause. “ _Confringo_!”

Someone gasps as Essa waves her wand, somehow forcing the curse to fizzle. She'd blocked it, of course, but if she hadn't she would've exploded and then caught fire.

Potter, disregarding the shock of the bystanders, begins another spell. “ _Conjunctivitis_!”

Again, Essa deflects.

Potter begins to move forward, shooting off spell after spell, all of which are blocked by Essa. His raw, untamed power is frightening to watch. Draco is having a hard time breathing. One wrong move, and Essa could land herself in the infirmary for days.

Students are beginning to wonder why Essa isn't even trying. She’s simply allowing the deflected spells to fly anywhere they wish, instead of aiming them back at Potter. A sweat has broken out on her opponent’s forehead.

Essa looks completely unaffected. If Draco is to take her expression out of context, she could be waiting for Dumbledore to finish a speech. She looks almost bored with the flashing lights emerging from her opponent’s wand.

Potter stops. The two duellers silently regard each other for a moment.

A little smile appears on Essa’s lips. “ _Ex-pe-lli-ar-mus_ ,” she says, loudly and slowly, and Potter blocks the sluggish attack with ease. It's the first time she's ever spoken audibly during a duel.

They look at each other again, both of them beginning to grin wildly. Draco feels as if someone has suddenly punched him in the gut.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Potter suddenly shouts, jabbing his wand forward violently, and his spell is so fast Draco can't even follow it with his eyes.

A burst of white sparks go off in between them, stopping the attack.

“ _Expelli_ -”

Essa suddenly steps forward. “ _Expelliarmus_.”

She does not shout it, as everyone else does, but the light that leaves her wand is blinding. Potter’s wand flies out of his hand, and her lips move as she whispers another spell.

Potter’s wand changes trajectory and lands in Essa’s palm.

“Sterling takes the victory. Ten points to Hufflepuff!” Black sounds a little disappointed as he holds up Essa’s arm. She smiles slightly, not basking in the thunderous applause. Professor Potter pats his son’s back before joining the other professors.

Potter stays on the podium to get his wand from Essa. He says something, but the clapping covers up his words. Essa laughs brightly, responding in return before hopping off the platform and rushing over to Abbott, Macmillan and Smith.

Potter runs a hand through his hair, adjusts his glasses, and walks back to Granger and Weasley. He's grinning like a lunatic, despite the fact that he has just lost his duel and sullied his duelling record even further.

He says something and both Granger and Weasley clap. The latter smacks Potter on the back and shouts a few words that look like congratulations.

Draco, with a sense of dread rising in his chest, looks to where Granger’s shrewd eyes have narrowed in on. Essa is hugging Abbott, her eyes bright and happy, and right in front of both Draco and Granger, she winks at Potter.

Draco’s attention sprints back, and collides straight into Potter’s ruddy red cheeks.

This could mean several things, but Draco is absolutely certain that they will be going to the Feast together tomorrow while Millicent dangles on his arm. There is absolutely no logic or evidence whatsoever to back him up, but he has no doubts.

Perhaps Potter had asked her, and she'd said no, but changed her mind after the duel. The duel must've had some part in it -- after all, the two of them had been downright playful, with their wands aiming fatal spells.

Either way, Draco feels like he is watching a horror story unfold in front of his very eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Inside the Great Hall, the Fifth Year students and above of Hogwarts chatter excitedly. A line of prefects and their dates stand against the wall right outside, sweaty and too nervous to make good conversation. Draco is one of them.

He cranes his neck backwards, but cannot see over the other Slytherin Prefects and their dates. He'd thought for sure that they'd be announced by year, but Dumbledore had ordered them into houses instead. This, of course, means that he still doesn’t know for sure if Essa is really going with Potter.

“...can't believe the Heads of House are announcing,” Millicent is saying. She'd been hesitant at first, but had begun to say more and more after he hadn't immediately said something cutting -- he’s so bored that he just completely tuned out instead. “Snape’s voice is not meant for announcements, he sounds like-”

Draco says nothing and adjusts his robes, ignoring her again. He is wearing dark green without even a tint of that vaguely purplish shade. Millicent’s face had, to his utmost delight, fallen at the sight. The doors suddenly swing open, releasing cheers from inside. Draco pushes himself up from the wall, taking a deep breath in preparation.

“Slytherin house,” Snape’s nasal voice suddenly drawls, quelling the enthusiasm. “Fifth Year Prefect Draco Malfoy, and Fifth Year Millicent Bulstrode.”

Millicent's hand grabs his arm, and Draco only barely manages to not flinch away from her tight grip; there is a possibility that her fingers are charmed to bruise. She has the nerve to speak directly in his ear, but a single glare is enough to quell whatever idiotic thought she had believed was important enough to share.

“Save me a seat, Draco,” Theodore says from behind them. His voice is bitter, but otherwise lacking in emotion. This is mostly likely due to the fact that Pansy is holding onto his arm and leaning into his robes despite her date's clear desire to avoid all physical contact at any cost.

He strides forward into the light of the doors, eyes skimming the Hufflepuff table for any hint of Essa. There is polite applause from the hall for his arrival, mostly from that particular table, and he walks with long, quick strides; beside him, Millicent is nearly jogging to keep up. The noise her heels make as they clack on the tiles is reminiscent of a galloping horse. 

They reach the Prefect table and sit down. Millicent pulls out her own chair next to him after a brief pause, a strained smile on her face.

Snape clears his throat, drawing the roaming eyes away from them. “Fifth Year Prefect Pansy Parkinson, and Fifth Year Theodore Nott.”

Once again, there is hesitant clapping. Draco takes some time throughout the next few couples in an attempt to locate either Essa or Daphne sitting in the Hall, but sees neither of them. He grits his teeth -- this is bad news for both him and Theodore, who takes the seat next to him.

He looks disturbed and occupies himself with pulling his arm out of Pansy's fingers. "I think Daphne is going with a Prefect," he hisses. 

Draco shrugs and leans in during the next round of applause so he can shout in his friend’s ear. “Your flawless logic never ceases to amaze.”

Theodore is restless throughout Snape’s stint at the front of the Professor’s table. After the Seventh Year Slytherins have been announced, Theodore suddenly looks to him, tugging rather desperately at his sleeve. It’s unbecoming for a boy their age.

“Daphne isn't going with a Slytherin Prefect!” His eyes are so wide that Draco can see the whites all around.

Flitwick climbs up onto his table, a scroll clutched in his hands. “Ravenclaw House!” he shouts, and the resounding cheer is louder than any Slytherin couple had received. What a truly idiotic school.

“Fifth Year Prefect Anthony Goldstein and Fourth Year Ginny Weasley!”

There is a roar of approval from the tables of both of their houses. Weasley has her hair done up in a elegant braid and a surprisingly decent gown on -- she must have been exempt from the younger Years’ version of the Feast. Goldstein is not wearing the traditional robes that all Slytherins bear; he is wearing a suit jacket and a tie that matches his date. Neither of them look remotely lacking, and are beaming ear to ear.

“Fifth Year Prefect Padma Patil and Fifth Year Dean Thomas!”

The two appear in the doorway, matching colors as well. The cheers reach a deafening level when Thomas catches his date after her high heels get caught on the ends of her dress. Even Flitwick squeaks out a laugh.

Suddenly, Theodore grabs Draco’s shoulder. His hand is so tight it feels like a death trap, and his face is pale. “Look.”

Draco does, and is so shocked his mouth almost drops open. In the doorway is Daphne -- calm, smiling, serene Daphne.

She is unrecognizable in a scandalous red dress that, depending on which way one might tug at it, will expose either her breasts or bottom when she sits. Her lips are painted the same bold hue, and she stalks forward confidently.

“Goodness,” Pansy exclaims, fanning herself as Flitwick announces their names.

“Sixth Year Prefect Marcus Turner and Fifth Year Daphne Greengrass!”

There is a little bit less noise because of the number of people who are shocked, distracted, or both, and also because of the number of people who refuse to cheer for a Slytherin. Either way, Theodore is not clapping at all as Daphne and Turner make their way to the Ravenclaw section of the table.

Draco feels like his center of gravity has shifted by a few centimeters. Throughout the many years of their acquaintance, he had never imagined Daphne Greengrass, of all people, having the capability to wear a dress like that. And yet he had considered her all figured out. 

“Can you believe what her father would say if he saw her tonight? Too bad Turner’s a Halfblood and doesn't have a chance,” Theodore sniffs.

Draco still can't find Essa at any of the tables, which means that he had been right about her unfortunate date to the feast. It is for this reason that he wishes someone to accompany him in his misfortune -- after all, misery loves company.

He turns to Theodore. “Turner’s related to Newt Scamander.”

“Who?”

“The wizard wrote our textbook about beasts. He's well known and respected, is he not?” Draco can't help but goad him a bit. Strangely, it does makes him feel better (that probably means he is a bad person. Oh well).

Theodore's face droops. “You think her parents wouldn't mind?”

“Not if it means they extend themselves to Scamander; they've still got Astoria to marry pure and carry on their name. I heard she and Garrick Sterling are in talks to be married, the poor girl.”

Professor Sprout announces Hufflepuff House with a loud yell. She announces Abbott and an ecstatic looking Longbottom, who almost trips when their tables gives them a standing ovation. His resulting chubby grin serves as an amusingly ironic contrast to Theodore's glower.

“That means Daphne could be betrothed to that Ravenclaw, wouldn't it?”

“I can't imagine her with anyone but a Slytherin.”

Theodore looks sideways at him, bottom lip jutting out shamelessly. “At least he's not a _Hufflepuff_ -”

“Diggory was a Hufflepuff, and won the Triwizard Tournament. Hufflepuff hasn't been useless for _years.”_ Draco clears his throat before he gets too _carried away_ , as Essa would say. “You might be related to the Sterlings if you and Daph-”

“Unlikely,” Theodore scoffs, eyes glittering as he looks at the newest couple striding down the hall. His bitter expression is again at odds with the joyous noises in the background. “I'd never marry Daphne. She's not my type.”

“What are you really doing when you're mooning over her in class, then? Checking for freckles?”

“Gryffindor House,” McGonagall’s calm voice announces, and the Gryffindor table riots.

Theodore has to lean in, speaking so loudly he is almost yelling. Draco can still barely hear him. “You think she's got feelings for Turner? They _are_ sitting a bit close...”

“Perhaps," Draco drawls, barely managing to hold back an eyeroll.

“Bloody hell!"

“Doesn't matter,” Draco says listlessly, and then decides to take pity on him. Girls are no fun. “The two of you-”

“Not about that, you absolute ponce! Draco, the door-”

Draco turns and sees Essa. He sucks in a quick breath, unable to believe his own two eyes.

She is wearing a sleeveless dress that flows down her figure like the flames of a white fire. They turn into wisps of translucent material that flutter between her legs as she walks, and the color of it is so purely white that the lights reflect off her body like stars. There is a crown of flowers on her head, tiny jewels woven into her hair, and a smile on her lips.

Draco absentmindedly feels his mouth fall open.

“Fifth Year Prefect Harry Potter and Fifth Year Essa Sterling," McGonagall says, voice stern even as a smile dances on the edges of her voice.

Draco does not even bother sparing Potter a glance as she walks with him down the hall to the sound of roaring approval from both of their houses. Her eyes are bright and gleaming in the lanterns dangling above; she is extremely beautiful.

“Watch yourself, Draco,” Theodore says softly, and he realizes that he is staring too hard and his face is much likely showing too much. He tears his gaze away and directs his observations down at the silverware.

Millicent and Pansy are still watching Essa as she sits down at the table, her curls bouncing against her back with every movement.

“I wasn't aware that Essa had connections with Potter,” Millicent says brusquely.

Pansy sniffs. “My mother's already told me all about how she's to be disowned.”

“Really?” Millicent asks, and Draco is suddenly able to pay attention to something other than the dangling silver hoops in Essa’s ears. “You don't think…”

“It's because before her father died, he took her to all kinds of muggle events, don't you know? And Margaret Sterling couldn't even do anything about it!”

This new piece of juicy gossip seems to allow the two girls to once again become friends. Draco exchanges a significant glance with Theodore -- or at least he tries to, for his friend is still looking down the table in Daphne’s direction with a faint expression of outrage.

“...who her father was, have you heard?”

Draco tries to lean forward a bit to hear over the loud cheering that follows the appearance of Head Boy and Head Girl.

Pansy ruefully shakes her head, pursing her lips. Her eyes remain alight with triumph. “A Pureblood, that's for sure; Essa got her blood tested when she came here just so she could prove it to Elizabeth Sterling. Fat lot of good it'll do her now though.”

“Have you heard how her father died?” Millicent sounds hungry for information. Draco stays very still…

“All students, please rise for Headmaster Dumbledore’s speech!” Professor Potter yells, an arm wrapped around the shoulders of a red haired witch. Even across the distance, her eyes are a familiar, piercing green.

Professor Black leads the Gryffindor table in hooting obnoxiously as they bang upon the table. Snape’s lips turn down so far they touch his chin -- the house leader looks particularly unpleasant today.

“Of course, thank you all for the warm welcome!” Dumbledore surveys the room, his eyes darting across the Slytherins, who all defiantly remain sitting besides three Seventh Years. “Another year, another Halloween feast, this one just as lovely as all the others…”

Pansy leans across the table, whispering. “Her mum wouldn't say much, but mine told me that Essa was there when the death happened, can you imagine?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Millicent says breathily, looking both distressed and delighted to know. “She's, you know, probably not right in the brain anymore, if you know what I mean. It would sure explain her choice in company-”

Draco, for some reason, feels as if something very heavy has landed on his chest, perhaps with a semblance to a troll foot. Of course, they don’t know how close he had been to walking down the hall with her on his arm.

Pansy laughs nastily. “Imagine being from a family like hers and being sorted into Hufflepuff, no less!”

“Well-”

There is suddenly a large cheer, and Draco turns his eyes back to the Professors’ table, watching as everyone in the hall sits back down and food appears. In the chaos of it all, a skeleton crew begins to dance jauntily across the lanterns, swinging wildly and kicking about. Draco has to pick a femur out of his soup.

He's still looking at it disgustedly when he almost misses Pansy saying delicately, “Draco, weren't you to marry her?”

“Excuse me?” he says, stiffening and allowing the bone to drop onto the floor. He deliberately kicks it towards her.

Millicent presses forward, doing a good impression of Granger during any class. “Essa Sterling, you know, from Hufflepuff? The pretty one that's such a ditz?”

Draco wipes his fingers on a napkin, keeping his eyes on hers until she looks away uncomfortably. “The Sterlings are persistent,” he says, words tasting rotten in his mouth.

“She’s nice, of course, like the rest of the Hufflepuffs. She just isn't clever enough for Slytherin, that unfortunate witch.” Pansy smiles, her teeth glittering in the lantern light before a bone hits her on the back of her head and her expression turns murderous.

Draco tries not to laugh as she pulls out a wand and shrieks a hex at the offending skeleton. The spell flies through its ribs, and hits a girl sitting at the Ravenclaw table instead. Pansy ignores this and sniffs as she picks up her spoon, Essa forgotten in the wake of her fiery anger. The Ravenclaw girl’s nose shifts into a snout of a furry animal. An uproar starts at the seats around her.

“On the OWLS,” Millicent starts, trying to talk to Theodore, “what will be your hardest subject?”

Theodore glumly looks up from his plate. “All of them,” he says. What a fetching date.

Draco’s eyes dart over of their own accord to Essa. She is eating a pastry, and her Gryffindor section of the Prefect table is quite easily the loudest. Everyone is clamoring to talk to her, or to Potter, or both, but she keeps her attention firmly on Granger as she talks to her.

Granger has done something to her hair -- she did the same thing at last year’s Yule Ball when she went with Krum -- and the two girls are chatting happily. Draco wonders for a moment what his life would be if his father had not been Lucius Malfoy but Lucius Potter instead, and if perhaps it would be him with Essa on his left and Granger across, wearing not robes but a tailored suit that even Pansy had eyed twice.

Perhaps it would be him with two parents who still smile at each other, and two sisters who sometimes visit him at Hogwarts and press kisses against his cheek.

He blinks away the sudden cold feeling crawling up his spine and stays silent for the rest of the feast, even when the tables fold themselves up and music plays from Dumbledore’s wand and the girls shriek as confetti spews from the ceiling.

He and Theodore lean against the wall, pretending not to watch Essa and Daphne, respectively. Millicent and Pansy storm out together after half an hour, grumbling about boys, differences left aside.

The night races past, blurring, until Draco finds himself laying in his bed, robes hanging in his closet and hair still wet from a bath. It is only then that he closes his eyes and allows himself to succumb to whatever has been weighing down his bones tonight.

_  
_

* * *

_  
_

_Father_ , Draco writes. He hesitates, glancing at the ever growing fire that he has fueled by the multitude of discarded letters started but never finished. He is beginning to run out of ink.

Could there be a way to take action upon the disastrous announcement Dumbledore had given only an hour prior? It is now only three days away from the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match, and if the relentless sneers from the Gryffindors aren't enough, the Slytherins in particular had been shocked at this morning’s news.

“In the light of anti-muggle sentiment by some students,” Dumbledore had said loudly, “it will become mandatory for two classes of Muggle Studies to be taken by each student each week. New timetables will be distributed accordingly.”

Draco, to his great relief, does not have to take it until Wednesday, but that is the very day before the great Quidditch match and he can't afford to be losing his free morning to such garbage. Gathering his courage, he places his quill on the paper again.

_My studies have been proceeding without any significant obstacles despite the students from other houses. They might have gone mad due to the amount of muggle attacks that occur every fortnight or so. Headmaster Dumbledore has even gone so far as to require us each attend two Muggle Studies classes a week._

_This has clearly impacted my housemates the most, as Slytherin has the lowest number of students currently taking that elective. Taking into account that this announcement has occurred so soon before our Quidditch match against Gryffindor, this is hardly a coincidence; my teammates and I will have to take extra classes._

_It is because of this that my timetable is very much inconvenient, and that I now have more work to bear. Mother had suggested that you had some authority over the attacks in her last letter, and therefore I do ask of you to make them more sparse and less frequent in the following days._

_Your faithful son,_

_Draco Malfoy_

He reads and rereads the letter, checking for any blots or errors before rolling up the parchment and walking through the tunnel that leads to the Owlery. He finds his owl without effort and fastens the letter to its leg.

“Bring this to the main mansion,” he mutters, finishing off the tie, and stands back. “Go on,” he says when the owl doesn't budge. Finally, it blinks at him twice but takes off. He lingers behind, watching it disappear into the clouds.

As he walks back to the Slytherin dormitory, he happens to pass a large window. It is becoming cooler outside, and yet the younger witches and wizards continue to freely roam the lawns and areas around the lake. Groups of girls cluster underneath the shade of the trees, and the boys hoot and holler as they dangle their legs in the water, stealing glances at their female peers all the while.

He spots a head of Weasley hair, and then another -- the twins are talking seriously over a notebook, no doubt planning their next despicable stunt. Curiously, Essa is with them, laying in the grass with her cloak spread underneath her like a blanket. She and Hermione Granger are watching the clouds pass.

The sight jerks him back to the summer, when she had done the same with him. They had recited poetry, studied for their OWLS, dabbled in philosophy; he remembers discussing muggle ideas of existentialism and the like. A feeling that has become more frequent finds itself in his body yet again.

It is, he discovers suddenly, loneliness.

 _Imagine that_ , he thinks disgustedly at himself.  _Draco Malfoy, sole heir of the Black and Malfoy bloodlines, is lonely because he misses some girl_   _who doesn't want to be friends with him anymore_. 

It is not so much he is lonely without her that he is _not_ lonely _with_ her. He has never really had a true friend; Theodore and Daphne have been dancing around each other since First Year, and he had never allowed himself to truly let down his guard in their company.

He stares creepily at her out the window before forcing himself to turn away. There is nothing he can do now, he supposes, but to fill the loneliness with something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are going to start getting chapters on time again... i'm posting twice this week just to make up for the brief unexpected hiatus i went in :)
> 
> i really wanted to write smut but i realized that this is during their fifth year and that's basically tenth grade?? a bit early for intense sex lol but i'm also considering writing a separate book in this series later addressing draco's sexual journey as he discovers muggle porn and toys or whatever with essa. just a thought
> 
> also i'd like to take some time to THANK YOU if you're still following this fic regularly. i was actually planning on abandoning this series completely but i read some comments that really motivated me to keep going... also the amount of kudos make me happy (haha this is actually just shameless promotion for kudos and feedback. leave something for me pleaseee i'll post faster i promise!)


	6. Chapter 6

Montague grips Angelina Johnson’s fingers so hard that even Draco, watching from behind, winces. But Johnson is a Gryffindor and keeps her face absent of even a twitch, instead returning the favor twofold. Her knuckles turn white from force, causing a muscle in Montague’s cheek to pulse.

“Let go, captains,” Madam Hooch orders, eyes fixed on their hands. “I want a fair game -- none of that pesky rivalry business, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Johnson says sweetly, giving Montague’s fingers one last brutal squeeze. His palm is a sweaty shade of red when she lets go. Hooch sighs, choosing not go comment, and gives them all the signal to mount.

Draco climbs onto his broom, heart pounding. If he loses to Potter, he’ll never be able to face his parents ever again -- they’ve come out all the way to Hogwarts for the first match of the year.

He wonders if Essa is on his side, and if she might be watching him at the moment.

The whistle sounds and he pushes off from the ground, trying to stay focused. The weather today is quite chilly -- winter is quickly approaching -- and the wind keeps his hair from settling correctly on his forehead. It would be a good day, if not for the fact that he feels sick with nerves.

Meanwhile across the pitch, Potter doesn’t seem to be experiencing the same problems; the Gryffindor’s expression is the epitome of determination. He’s directing his broom with slight movements and darting his eyes around like a hawk, goggles fastened tight on his face. He looks ready for a kill.

Draco hunches over slightly, looking away but keeping him in his peripheral vision just in case. If the other Seeker shows any sudden movements, he’ll be there in a flash.

There is unexpectantly a loud cheer from the Gryffindor section of the stands. _“...Johnson scores the first goal of the year!”_ Lee Jordan’s voice is mocking at worst and gleeful at best. “ _Is this a preview for the rest of the game? Methinks_ -”

A smug smile appears on Potter’s face as his concentration breaks briefly, and fortunately for Draco, that is all it takes. The Gryffindor seeker’s eyes turns from the ground to his teammates, missing the brief flash of gold below him. Draco realizes that the Snitch is taking refuge among the tall grasses near the edges of the stands, and that it’s being particularly elusive today.

He glances up. Nobody else has seen it yet -- everyone is watching the action happening in the air. Better yet, once Potter gets his head back out from the clouds, he seems convinced that the Snitch has flown upwards and returns to peering at the sky, only sparing Draco a look every so often.

Going for it is definitely not an option yet; the Snitch is too far from him and much too close to Potter.

He keeps his face calm, glancing towards it every three seconds as he patiently drives his opponent away at a painfully slow pace. For some reason, the Snitch is unbelievably attracted to the ground today and refuses to go anywhere else. Potter remains clueless in his peripheral vision.

Second by second, Draco allows his broom to casually drift towards the Snitch, hoping that it doesn’t move. The process is so slow that he barely manages to hold on to his patience. With each slight movement towards it, Potter naturally floats away. He can’t believe his luck--

All of a sudden, the Gryffindor’s body tenses. His face is still blank, but Draco knows that he has finally caught sight of the Golden Snitch. But it’s too late, and Potter has missed his window of opportunity; the Snitch, which had once been nearly right under the Gryffindor’s broom, is now snugly in the middle between the two seekers.

Draco plays dumb, but Potter is the impulsive sort. The other boy darts down towards the grass, hair flying backwards, and Draco has no choice but to follow suit -- not that it will matter anyway, because Potter’s Firebolt is superior in speed. The arena, eager to see which Seeker will emerge victorious, roars.

The wind rips at his face and his ears are filled with a flurry of noise; Lee Jordan is saying something idiotic as usual and Potter, to Draco’s immense horror, is nearly there--

The Snitch, for whatever reason, shoots upwards at a frightening speed. This is in Draco’s favor (he had been lagging behind and his chance at victory is renewed), although the lack of warning means that both Seekers will have to somehow reverse direction and turn one hundred and eighty degrees. Any timing mistake on either end will result in a painful collision.

In a mild panic, Draco yanks at his broom, trying to control his strength so he can fly after the goddamn Snitch (the last time he’d been in this position was August, when an Essa-directed Wronski Feint had gone horribly wrong). He is nearly perpendicular with the ground for a solid second, the ends of his broom actually brushing the grass, but overall he makes a good turn. His heart hammers in triumph as he prepares to build speed.

He should’ve known this wouldn’t be the end.

Potter is unfamiliar with the turn but can’t make it due to a bigger reason: his Firebolt has carried him to a point much closer to the Snitch, and the speed gives him far too much momentum. His broom ricochets in a circle as he spins a full _three hundred and sixty fucking degrees_ in the air -- it’s an acrobatic thing of beauty that he even manages to hold on that far -- before he goes airborne.

It’s just Draco’s misfortune that he can’t escape; Potter’s body slams into him, probably going faster at this point than on his Firebolt, and knocks all the air out of him at once.

For a fateful moment he thinks he can hold on and fly away from the incident, but a bone in his left arm makes an audible, sickening _crunch_. He yells, a little in pain and a lot in fury, as his fingers slip and the world turns sideways.

Harry _fucking_ Potter--

He lands on his shoulder so hard that he loses the ability to scream. He allows his eyes to close for a brief moment before remembering what exactly is at stake, and uses his right arm to push himself up.

His vision blurs and he tastes blood, but he nonetheless manages to focus his eyes on the Nimbus lying in the grass. Next to it, Potter is trying to get up, but the front of the boy’s body keeps slumping downwards -- he must have landed on his head.

For a second even he feels sorry for him -- Potter is gagging and convulsing on the ground pitifully, and Draco cannot hold back an involuntary grimace -- but he thankfully comes back to reality after the nerves in his left arm scream in protest.

He squints up at the sky, feeling blood trickle down his jaw. Hooch is already flying towards them, all too ready to make a trip to the hospital wing, but a golden glint behind her ear catches his eye. He is reminded of, suddenly, a specific set of eyes in the audience.

_Father would be humiliated if he gave up now._

The Snitch tauntingly traces a figure eight. Ignoring several whistle blows, Draco throws himself towards his Nimbus (he has to repress the urge to take the Firebolt; he won’t allow Potter to have a hand in his triumph). It takes him several tries to remount because he keeps his eyes on the golden prize.

Flying is agony. The sharp ascent in altitude and the pain from his left side challenge his balance; he almost falls more times than he can count. Fortunately, the Snitch seems a bit winded after causing all the trouble, and he easily nabs one of its wings with his remaining functional hand. His cheek throbs in protest when he grins.

He almost tilts off his broom, Snitch wrapped snugly in his fingers. Instead, he finds himself propped up against Seventh Year Adrian Pucey, one of the more sociable members of their house.

“You’re mad,” the Slytherin Chaser says, looking down at the blood covered Snitch fluttering about. He looks both impressed and disgusted. “Holy shit. I can see a whole layer of skin I’m not supposed to.”

Draco can’t bring himself to care. He can hear the cheers from their side of the pitch and see his green-cloaked teammates nearing them; best of all, Lee Jordan is screaming in agony at the top of his lungs.

“We won, right?” he asks, vision going spotty.

Pucey looks at his face and hoots loudly in amusement. He wraps an arm around the younger player’s shoulders. “By ninety, you goddamn lunatic.”

“Oh good,” Draco says. He has a clever response to the goddamn lunatic part, but loses consciousness before he gets a chance to say it.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Montague, sporting a handsome bruise on his jaw but grinning toothily nonetheless. Draco has no doubt that his captain has opted for the natural healing process so he can wear the Slytherin victory on his face.

“Malfoy’s up,” Montague shouts, breaking the pleasant hum of whispering, and someone helps him sit up as another player adjusts his pillow, voices clamoring and overlapping all the while. Madame Pomfrey tells everyone to shut up without success.

“Snape smiled for six straight seconds.” Bletchley tilts his head back to down a gulp of liquid from a flask (origins unknown). He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “That's basically an orgasm if you ask me.”

“His hair did look more lively afterwards,” Montague agrees, eyeing the flask with concern.

Goyle immediately gets into an argument with Crabbe over which side their House Leader’s hair is parted -- they're both unobservant idiots, because Snape parts his hair in the middle.

“Just in case you didn’t remember,” Pucey says, leaning down against the bed to speak. “We won by ninety. That one-eighty turn was the _shit_.”

Both of their smiles freeze at his offhand use of Muggle slang -- Pucey’s in horror, Draco’s in shock. None of their other teammates notice (they're all too busy debating which side of Snape’s head is greasiest) and Draco suddenly recalls the rumor that Pucey is Muggleborn.

 _At least now I know it's true,_  he thinks. Unfortunately, the whole situation bodes ill for him as well because he knows exactly what the phrase means.

(Prolonged exposure of Essa’s No-Maj lingo has come back to haunt him _._ )

Perhaps he should say something or at least pretend he has no idea what's happening. But he's afraid that Pucey will figure out his familiarity with muggle culture, and instead opts for staring at his blanket. An awkward silence falls between the two players -- after all, what do you say when you're opposed to the existence of the person across from you?

Unaware of the uncomfortable tension, Cassius Warrington pushes Pucey aside to ruffle Draco’s hair. “Me ma was real proud o’ me for winning the game, kid.”

Thankfully, this diverts his attention away from the recent incident. “Is my family here?”

“They left,” Warrington replies. “Your father had business or somethin’, said congratulations on the grab.”

“Did he really?” Draco asks, unable to suppress the wild laugh bubbling in his throat. Father had said _congratulations_ -

Montague claps him on the shoulder, shaking him just a bit. His glee at beating out Gryffindor seems to have completely masked his previous annoyances. “He was smiling too.”

“No he wasn't,” Crabbe says. “His mouth was just normal, like- like a straight line.”

“Yes he was,” Goyle shouts. “The corner of his lip was like this, it was curled!” He makes a face that is presumably Lucius Malfoy’s smile.

Bletchley rolls his eyes, taking another swig. “How did these fuckers even get on the team?”

“We’re having a dry year.” Montague replies, shaking his head and leaning against the wall. “All brawn and no brains is usually associated with Gryffindor, not us.”

“Or with Miles after he's had a bit too much to drink,” Warrington jokes, nudging Bletchley with his elbow. “At least wait ‘till curfew, yeah? Walkin’ around with that flask in the daytime, you've got… you've got a lotta nerve.”

“You mean he's got big balls,” Pucey says. It's the first time he's spoken since his accidental comment, and he gauges Draco’s expression as Warrington, Bletchley and Montague all laugh.

“That's a good ‘un,” Warrington says as Bletchley repeats _big balls_ under his breath before snickering again. It's their first time hearing the phrase. The same cannot be said of Draco.

(“ _What_?” He'd blurted, heat rushing to his face. The grass had tickled his ears when he sat up in a hurry.

But Essa returned his gaze coolly, raising an eyebrow and allowing her bottom lip to scrunch up in challenge. “I said, it sounds like this Harry Potter guy has big balls.”

He stared back in disbelief, knowing that there could be only one meaning in her words but trying to find another anyway. Then he gave up, closed his eyes, and laughed himself silly.)

Pucey nods to himself, seemingly satisfied with whatever he'd seen on Draco’s face.

He doesn't know where to go from here; a muggleborn _knows_ that he is more knowledgeable in muggle culture than any Pureblood should be. And Slytherin hasn't even started Muggle Studies classes yet; Draco’s father had managed a week’s delay.

He marvels at his own idiocy. At this rate, he'll be at the top of his Muggle Studies class. He might even beat out Granger -- now wouldn't that be a cruel twist of irony?

 

* * *

 

“When do you have it?” Daphne rests her hand on her palm. Her lips aren't red and her eyelids are bare from swirling dark shades, but she retains the new air of confidence she'd debuted at the Halloween Feast.

Draco looks up from his plate. “Pardon?”

“When do you have Muggle Studies?” She rolls her eyes and purses her lips. “Honestly, you sound _so_ snobbish sometimes.”

He exchanges a quick glance with Theodore, who has been looking intensely glum since the Halloween Feast. “And you've found yourself a new personality. Can we move on?”

“For the last time, Draco, this isn't my _new personality_. Dating Marcus has just made me discover-”

“-my inner confidence,” he and Theodore say with her, sardonic. Draco raises an eyebrow. “This isn't about Turner.”

“Oh, you just don't like him because he's a Halfblood.” She turns and looks at the Ravenclaw table, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

If it's possible, Theodore looks even glummer. He sinks down in his chair until his chin is level with the table. “She's gone mad, mate.”

“What is it you two don't like about him? He's a Halfblood, sure, but he's nice, and funny, and handsome…”

“My sources tell me he can't even go at it for three minutes,” Draco drawls, taking note of her sudden flush. “Really, Daphne. How long did you think we would believe _inner confidence_ had no correlation with sex?”

(Not that he'd expected any of them to remain celibate for long. He's just always assumed Daphne and Theodore would wind up deflowering each other; their families have been discussing marriage for years now.)

She sputters uselessly, looking almost as embarrassed as Theodore. “I don't want to talk about this with you two.”

“Because we're boys?” Draco asks at the same time Theodore mutters, “Good.”

“Because you always get this look on your face, like you're judging me even though I'm _sixteen_ already. And he's seventeen! We're both old enough.”

“I know you're almost a year older than me, no need to rub it in.” Draco frowns and folds his arms. “And I'm not just judging you for having sex. I'm also judging you for every other decision you've made in the past two weeks. Aren't you moving a bit quick?”

“I don't need _your_ approval on my boyfriend,” she hisses, eyes narrowing. “It's my choice.”

He shrugs. “It seems rather like you're making choices for the sake of proving that you have them.”

“At least my family approves of the person I'm fooling around with!”

Draco stops smiling immediately. “You know it was never like that with her.”

“Fine, whatever -- but at least tell me where you heard the three minute thing from.”

“I just assumed by the looks of him,” he says calmly, leaning back in his chair (Pansy had told him). Theodore is beginning to look more confident by the second. “He's just got this greasy thing about him. And really, it's not my business, but I'm sure your father wouldn't approve of what you've been up to.”

“He finalized my union with Marcus yesterday, so he knew it was going to happen sometime soon.” Daphne sniffs, rapidly recovering and taking offense at the way Theodore’s face suddenly drains of color. “Don't look at me like that, Theodore. We were raised to wait until negotiation, not marriage.”

“Unfortunately,” Draco says. He loses all of his appetite at this reminder.

“Speaking of,” she says, peering at him mischievously, “how is Pansy?”

He sighs.

Mother has sent him multiple letters over the past week. The first, about the Quidditch game, was a pleasant surprise, but turned out to be a gentle, glorious piece of writing compared to the following letters.

She was in marriage talks with the Parkinsons once again, she’d told him, and the odds were that the union would be finalized in a matter of weeks. He’d ignored the first marriage letter, hoping that if there was no reply, the matter would be dropped. This proved to be an inefficient strategy, as after the fourth, his father decided to write to him directly.

As the sole heir of the Black and Malfoy bloodlines, two of the oldest and most royal Pureblood families, he has a duty to expand influence with marriage. The Parkinson family has vast economic ties but little political sway, and therefore is a perfect option: both sides would gain dramatically (hers more than his, of course).

On paper, Draco and Pansy are a flawless pairing. But Draco doesn't live in a storybook.

“She’s overcome with glee,” Draco drawls, eyeing his future wife. She is giggling next to Millicent, and has been in high spirits for weeks now.

Theodore smirks. “And you?”

“I refuse to accept this as my fate.”

“It’s too bad you don’t have any siblings,” Daphne points out. She’s picking at her bottom lip absentmindedly and glancing at the High Table. “And your mother’s side is counting on you as well?”

He follows her gaze and sees Professor Black speaking excitedly with Professor Potter. “He’s chosen to remain childless for the sake of killing off his surname.”

“But he still uses his,” Theodore says, sounding critical.

Daphne shakes her head. “His parents never got the chance to disown him, remember? He has to keep his surname if he wants to keep his wealth -- or else everything transfers to one of his cousins, and he hates his family too much for that to happen.”

“Didn’t he have a brother?” Theodore asks. He seems very aware of the fact that he is speaking directly to her for the first time in several days (the last time had ended in yet another argument).

“Nobody knows what happened to him,” Draco says, interrupting their odd, tense stare. “Regulus Black went to the States and never returned.”

Daphne clears her throat. “A bit like Margaret Sterling before last year. Maybe Regulus Black will return with a son who can spare you from the monster known as Pansy Parkinson."

"I wish," he says emphatically. "But I don't imagine it to be plausible."

“So you’ll have to marry her then,” Theodore says as he shifts in his seat uncomfortably. Across the table, Daphne mimics his movement subconsciously.

Draco looks at the ceiling, exasperated and bitter. “Good god, I hope our first child is a son.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me last week: crap, fifth year is too early for sex, maybe smut later?  
> me this week: fuck, orgasm, Daphne is having sex
> 
> (yeah so I'm kinda sorta maybe sexually frustrated; good things will come to those who wait)


End file.
